


ALDNT Extras

by nameless_bliss



Category: Shadowhunters (TV), The Mortal Instruments Series - Cassandra Clare
Genre: Bonus Content, Brief Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Explicit Language, F/M, Ficlet Collection, Gen, M/M, Magnus Bane Deserves Nice Things, Non-Chronological, Non-Linear Narrative, Original Character(s), POV Magnus Bane, Sexual Content, mentions of character deaths, various relationships - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-07
Updated: 2018-03-02
Packaged: 2018-09-07 04:30:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 72,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8783161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nameless_bliss/pseuds/nameless_bliss
Summary: A collection of Magnus-centric bonus content for the "Alec Lightwood Deserves Nice Things" series.





	1. Magnus & Luzia - First Kiss

**Author's Note:**

> Hello again, ALDNT Readers!
> 
> Recently, I've started writing various ficlets from Magnus's POV that take place in ALDNT canon, but since they don't really work as chapters, I've been posting them on my tumblr instead. I've gotten a few requests to make them available on this site, so here we are! 
> 
> Everything will be posted both in this fic and on tumblr (the masterpost can be found [here](http://my-nameless-bliss.tumblr.com/post/151811763161)). The only exceptions are the few pieces of bonus content that aren't in story-form (timelines, playlists, etc.), which will only be posted on tumblr just for the sake of easier formatting.
> 
> Each chapter will also include a link to the tumblr post, because I've been using the tumblr tags as my author's notes for each ficlet. As a general note, I'm still accepting prompts, both for ALDNT chapters, and Magnus extras.
> 
> And, as always, thank you so much for reading! This series is so important to me, and I really had no idea how much of an impact it would have on anyone. Your support truly means the world to me, both for this series, and for Magnus Bane having nice things.

Lisbon, Portugal - 1717 

 

Magnus stops writing when she enters the room. He keeps his pencil against the paper, but stops thinking. Loses focus instantly. Tries to keep himself from smiling. He manages just fine… 

Until she walks over, and sits down. 

Right next to him. 

Smiling is inevitable, so he gives all his energy to not laughing instead.  

Well, if she’s sitting this close to him, she can plainly see that he’s not writing anymore. So Magnus closes the ledger book that’s balancing on his knee.  

And he looks over at Luzia. She’s not looking at him. Magnus supposes there’s enough visual stimulation in this room to hold her attention, but still. She came into Magnus’s private study, sat down on his settee less than an inch away from him… and now she’s not looking at him.

 She hadn’t even knocked. 

She always used to knock. 

Well. It’s been almost a month. After spending this much time with Magnus, he imagines her perception of the mysterious,  _ mystical _ magic-doer has been skewed rather sharply. To Luzia, Magnus is no longer a distant, dangerous figure. From what Magnus can tell, she now feels roughly the same about him as she feels about the small puppy that lives with her family’s servants. 

“Are you here to tell me that you’ve finally considered my offer?” 

Luzia tilts her head, but she still doesn’t look at him. “Yes.” 

Oh. 

Magnus… wasn’t expecting that. She’s shrugged off the subject every day for the past week and a half. By now, he assumed her avoidance was her answer. But now- 

Magnus feels something expand in his chest. Sudden, and rapidly gaining speed.  

Excitement.  

God, it’s been a long time. The feeling is downright unfamiliar. As it creeps up his spine, he feels only the faintest sense of recognition. How long has it been, how many years? 

“And?” 

Luzia turns to him. Her eyebrows are furrowed. “And what?” She glances away, then back. “I said I’ve considered it. I didn’t say I’ve come to a conclusion.” 

Magnus- 

Laughs. If it’s been such a long time since he’s felt excitement, it makes sense that it’s a little disorienting for him to feel it get replaced with disappointment.

 “I’ll say it once again: if you reject my offer, you will  _ have _ to find yourself a suitable engagement instead.” He opens his ledger again, just for something to do with his hands. “The deadline is in two days. If I don’t procure you a proposal by then, I will not be paid.” He looks at her from the corner of his eye. “And I am  _ going _ to be paid.” 

Luzia nibbles her lower lip. Her shoulders move, like she wants to slouch, but is prevented from doing so by her corset. Magnus is very familiar with this posture by now. She’s thinking. 

She’s  _ horrifically _ adorable. 

Her fingers tangle together under her chin, like it’ll help her parse out whatever she’s about to say. “But if I were to accept your offer, you wouldn’t be completing what you were hired to do.” 

“The contract given to me by your father says that I am to secure you a sound proposal from a good, rich gentleman.” Magnus leans toward her with a smirk. “And I guarantee, you will never meet a gentleman better or richer than myself.”

 Luzia narrows her eyes at him… 

But then, she smiles. Wide. Showing each of her crooked teeth. Her dark eyes are equally wide, and lit by the sunlight coming in through the windows.  

God, her smile is beautiful. 

“But your contract requires a  _ proposal, _ and that’s not what you-” 

“A proposal, yes,” Magnus interrupts lightly. “That is the  _ exact _ word used in the contract.” He raises an eyebrow. “If he wanted it to be a  _ marriage _ proposal, he very well should have said so, shouldn’t he?” Part of him wants to wink, but it feels too forward. This is a delicate situation, and the last thing he wants is to make her uncomfortable. “I am a good, rich gentleman, and I am  _ proposing _ that you abandon this horrible little mansion and run away with me.” 

And, like every other time he’s offered, he leaves it at that. He doesn’t add any other nuance, any connotation, any implication. 

Because he wants Luzia to be with him. That’s it. He doesn’t care how. 

In any other situation, he would automatically make the context romantic. After all, Luzia is beautiful, and charming, and she seems to be just as happy to be around Magnus as he is to be around her. Hell, in any other situation, he’s pretty sure he would have tried to take her to bed by now.  

But he hasn’t. Because he doesn’t want to risk ruining this. He hasn’t felt like this in such a long time. He hasn’t…

 He hasn’t felt.  

In such a long time.  

He can’t remember the last time he felt  _ anything _ as sharply and tangibly as he feels with Luzia. It’s like… it’s like rediscovering  _ life _ again. She does something, or says something, and Magnus  _ feels. _ And it’s strange at first, and unfamiliar, because he’s forgotten. 

And now, he’s remembering.  

And he’s not willing to give that up. For anything. Because there’s so much more, he knows there’s so much more that he still hasn’t remembered. It was excitement today. Who knows what it’ll be tomorrow? He needs to stay with her. He needs to keep feeling. He needs to keep remembering how to feel. 

And he doesn’t care what the context is. Yes, he’s getting highly suspicious that one of the many things swirling around in his chest is the vague memory of affection -  _ romantic _ affection - but that’s not important. He can ignore that, if she wants him to. He’d gladly squash that bit of interest and let romantic love remain forgotten somewhere in his backlog of experiences. He doesn’t need it. 

But he needs her. 

Besides, he’s still… working through that. Coming to terms with it. 

Luzia is young. She’s  _ barely _ eighteen (it was that birthday that prompted her father to go to the extremes of hiring a goddamn warlock just to find her a husband in the first place). And Magnus… 

Magnus is old. Old enough that he can’t even _ remember  _ eighteen. What was he doing then? He knows he was already working. Which jobs did he take when he was eighteen? What year was it? Eighteen is beyond Magnus’s comprehension now. It’s too far away.  

It’s a lifetime away.  

Magnus is still learning how to adjust to that. To the knowledge that if he were mortal, he would have died by now. Long ago. Decades ago. But he’s still here. He’s not used to that. He feels… old. Too old to feel anything else but his age.  

Luzia is eighteen. Magnus was eighteen a hundred years ago. 

But he knows that’s not really how this works. If he’s going to be perpetually uncomfortable about his age difference with mortals, he needs to expand his immortal acquaintances, or he’ll have to be alone the rest of his life. Right now, the only people he knows who don’t have a significant age difference with him are Ragnor and Catarina, and it’s not as though Magnus is going to be making advances on either of them any time soon. 

This is just… his life now. His situation. He’s reached the point where he’s old enough that his age isn’t comprehensible anymore. Telling a mortal person that he’s over a century old means that they can’t  _ understand _ how old he is. It’s… it’s not quite that his age is ‘irrelevant’, but it certainly doesn’t mean the same thing as a mortal’s age.

 Which is why he’s kept this as vague as possible with Luzia. Because Magnus is a century older than her, but honestly, what does that mean to her? Magnus  _ looks _ like a perfect match. Hell, he looks significantly younger than some of the men her father has been finding for her. So what matters is how she feels about it. 

So he leaves it up to her. 

But maybe…  

Maybe that’s somehow not the right thing to do? 

Because Luzia is… glaring at him. Actually  _ glaring. _ She’s never looked at him like this before. This is the look she gives her father when he turns his back.  

“Have I…” Magnus leans back, trying to give her a bit more space. “Have I upset you?” 

“Why do you always say it like that?” Luzia demands, her face and voice both uncharacteristically intense. “You just say that we’ll ‘leave.’ Leave here. Take your payment and… go. Run away.” She makes a dismissive gesture with both hands. “Why won’t you tell me  _ anything? _ Yesterday you spent over two hours telling me about the progression of music in Spain in the seventeenth century, but when you tell me you want me to leave my home and run away with you, you don’t say anything. What sort of prospect is that for me?”  

She pauses, like she’s waiting for Magnus to answer. 

But Magnus doesn’t know what to say. All this time, he thought he was being polite by leaving it up to her. He didn’t realize it had come off as- 

“What would we do? Tell me now.” Again, Luzia’s tone makes it clear that this isn’t a request. “If I were to leave with you, what would our life be?” 

Well. 

Magnus smiles. 

He certainly knows the answer to that. 

“Whatever you want it to be.” He closes his ledger again, and this time he lets it drop onto the cushion next to him. “It could be anything. We could go wherever you want us to go, do whatever you want us to do… and be whatever you want us to be. I didn’t offer any specifications because to do so would cheapen the infinite  _ possibility _ of it.” 

Luzia looks skeptical. Interested - definitely interested. But skeptical. “Whatever _ I _ want? You have an opinion on the buckles of your shoes, but you  _ don’t _ have an opinion on an entire lifetime? Why is it all up to me?” 

Magnus presses his lips together. But he’s still smiling, a bit. “I’ve been making decisions for a long time. Too long. To be honest, I’m rather sick of it.”  

Luzia keeps looking at him. Eyes still narrowed. Roaming over every inch of Magnus’s face, like he might be trying to hide something from her in his eyebrow, or the hinge of his jaw.  

The intense scrutiny must continue for over a full minute. Magnus almost starts to feel nervous. Almost. Nervousness is still more of a memory than an emotion for him. 

Finally, Luzia takes a loud breath. 

“Could we go to Italy?”

 It-

 It takes a moment for Magnus to recover from the…  _ simplicity _ of that question. “Yes, of course.” 

“And France? See Notre Dame?” 

Magnus smiles. “Notre Dame is lovely.” 

Luzia’s face is starting to lift. The skepticism is dissolving, and her usual brand of nearly-unbearable excitement is starting to take over. “We could go… further? We go could east? To Moscow? Or we could go to India. Egypt - we could see the pyramids. Can you climb the pyramids? We could go to the ocean, go sailing. The Alps, or the Arctic.” Her words are speeding up. Her voice is getting quieter. “Have you ever seen a tiger?  _ Really _ seen one, in person? Or an elephant! Ride a horse. Ride a camel through the desert. Go to Spain, hear the music you can’t stop talking about. Hike through a forest- no. No, through a jungle.”  

She puts a hand to her chest, like her heart is racing and she’s trying to soothe it into calming back down. She looks winded. Her eyes are wide, and… is it just the light, or are they… wet? They’re sparkling, like she’s blinking back- 

“We could… we could do any of that?” 

“Technically,” Magnus’s smile twists a bit, “we could do _ all _ of that. And anything else you think of along the way.”  

He picks up his ledger again, but this time, because he actually needs it. He flips through it lightly, taking in the basics, doing just a bit of the math in his mind, seeing how much he has. Guessing how long it’ll last. How long he can abandon his work entirely for a trip to the pyramids. And the jungle. And the Alps. And Italy.  

Magnus almost wants to laugh. Hearing her list, the first ideas she has when presented with the entire world, hearing things that are actually somewhat wild and unusual… and then hearing things that are so horribly ordinary. Spain. Notre Dame. Riding a horse. Things that are so commonplace for Magnus, they sound downright  _ boring _ .  

It’s all new to her. To Luzia, the prospects of leaving the continent and leaving the  _ city _ are equally thrilling.  

Magnus turns a page. “Of course, travel can be quite tedious,” he turns his face toward her, “but it’s-  _ mphf- _ !” 

He’s cut off by her lips. Bumping clumsily against his. 

There’s a moment where they just… look at each other. Silent. Their eyes wide as saucers. Magnus isn’t sure why Luzia looks like she’s somehow just as surprised as he is, but then- 

“Oh no. Oh  _ no! _ ” She covers her mouth with her hand, but leaves her fingers splayed wide enough to speak. She looks absolutely mortified. “You moved! You turned your head, you weren’t- I was going to kiss your  _ cheek, _ you weren’t supposed to  _ move! _ ”  

She makes a noise of absolute despair, and buries her face in her hands.  

It’s… 

Magnus laughs. Just a little. Because he’s startled. Pleasantly startled. It’s a nice change of pace, to be caught off-guard by something, and be happy about it.  

And besides… 

“Here,” Magnus turns a bit, angles himself toward her. Waits for her to look up at him again, her face burning with embarrassment. He tries to look serious, but he’s pretty sure he’s still smiling. “I promise not to move this time.”

 It’s maybe a little too bold of him. But it gives her options. Gives her all the power. She could kiss his cheek, like she’d wanted to. She could take it as a joke, laugh off her tension and put the moment behind her. She could do nothing. Or she could… 

She takes her hands away from her face, but not very far. They hover just beneath her chin, like she’s not sure what she’s supposed to do with them. And she keeps them there as she leans in.

 She moves too quickly at first, and Magnus is briefly afraid that she’s going to tackle him to the floor. But she stops suddenly, with her face barely an inch away from Magnus’s. Like she lost her nerve. Or possibly, like she regained her sense. 

Her eyes are still open. So are Magnus’s. They’re too close together for eye contact. Magnus can’t focus, and Luzia’s face becomes a blur.

 Luzia must be seeing the same thing, because she laughs.  

She laughs, and she kisses him.  

It’s soft. Very chaste. Her lips are closed, and they keep trying to stretch into a smile as she giggles against Magnus’s mouth.  

Magnus can’t breathe. And he doesn’t know why. It’s not as though a kiss this simple should leave him breathless.  

Yet, here he is.

 He wants to touch her cheek. Rest his hand against her neck. Cradle the back of her head. Brush his finger along her jaw. Something,  _ anything-  _

But, no. 

He’d promised not to move. And he’s a man of his word. 

The kiss smooths out, so Luzia is mostly kissing him and only slightly laughing, instead of the other way around. But it doesn’t intensify. It’s still soft. Still gentle. 

Still wonderful.

 It’s rather… heartbreaking, when Luzia finally pulls away from him. Even though she moves the absolute least amount possible to separate their lips. Hell, they’re still close enough that their noses bump together when she tilts her head. 

But the kiss had felt so… warm. That’s another new one. Another feeling that’s like-new, all over again. Warmth, deep in his chest.

 Butterflies. 

Magnus is grinning. And his lips are still so close to Luzia’s, she can probably feel it. 

 Luzia backs away from him, impossibly slowly. It’s like she’s trying to find the minimum distance she needs to put between them for her to be able to hold Magnus’s gaze. She stops the moment she finds it.

 Her lips disappear for a moment, and Magnus wonders if she’s running her tongue across them. She looks serious again. Or perhaps, not serious, but… intent. “So, today, we ‘finish’ your job, and con my father out of a small fortune.” 

Magnus purses his lips and raises an eyebrow. “A medium-sized fortune, really.” He smirks. “But there’s no need to quibble over the bill.”

 Luzia’s lips twitch, like she’s about to smile. “Fine. Today, we con my father out of a  _ medium-sized _ fortune.” She takes a breath. Lets it out. Takes another. “Tomorrow, we leave.” Her eyes dart across Magnus’s face, like she’s looking for his reaction. “And then?” 

Magnus smiles.  

Excitement. Warmth. Fondness. Admiration. Affection. Joy. 

All words he’ll need to add back into his vocabulary. All feelings that are tugging on his heart and his mind, letting him know. They’re still here. They’re still his. 

Magnus hopes his promise of stillness expired when Luzia stopped kissing him. Because he takes her hand. He can’t help himself.  

“Whatever you want, my dear.”

 

 


	2. Magnus & Julien - First Kiss

Fribourg, Switzerland - 1811

 

Magnus doesn’t hear anything behind the closed door. It’s been half a minute, at least. Should he knock again?

He checks the card in his hand, for the thousandth time. Checks the address.

He’s at the right place. He’s _definitely_ at the right place.

He lifts the knocker again-

Footsteps. Rustling.

Well. _Finally._

Magnus tips up his chin. Tugs at the hem of his waistcoat. Tries to get his hat at the perfect angle, one that looks jaunty enough to be suggestive, but subtle enough to clearly be intentional.

And he runs his tongue across his lips.

He’s not going for subtlety in _all_ respects, after all.

Hell, if he could have gotten away with it, he’d have just cut to the chase and shown up naked.

There’s the distinct, muffled sound of locks being undone.

Magnus’s heart rate spikes instantly - and he curses himself for having so little self-control.

The door opens-

And it’s Julien.

Magnus is struck with equal amounts of surprise, and _delight_. His breath even gets caught in his throat, because apparently he’s completely pathetic now.

“I’ve sent them away.”

Shit.

Magnus wasn’t paying attention. Wasn’t listening. He’s a little… distracted. Because there’s suddenly a gorgeous man in front of him, blatantly smirking at him…

And about to have sex with him.

The very idea makes it impossible for Magnus to regain his composure. “Hm?”

Julien ducks his head, with an infuriatingly _knowing_ smile. “My staff. I’ve sent them home for the night.” He raises his eyebrows. “You were surprised that I opened the door myself.”

Well, _shit_.

Part of Magnus wants to bristle, to take him down a peg for thinking he can read Magnus so well.

But a much bigger part of him knows that this is part of it. Part of the whole… _thing_ that’s happening between them.

Julien tilts his head, like he’s trying to look apologetic with his posture, but his face is all smugness. “I hope that isn’t too forward of me. But since you’re here, I assume that we both know how this visit is going to end. I’m rather sick of the pretense.”

Something _ignites_ in Magnus’s gut.

Yes, he knows perfectly well how this is going to end.

And he cannot wait.

But he can’t show that. Not yet.

After all, he’s not himself right now. Not really, anyway. He’s not _really_ ‘Magnus Bane’ with Julien. Julien only knows Magnus as some insignificant young man.

Magnus smirks.

An ordinary young man. With none of Magnus’s experience. None of his skill. None of his knowledge. None of his centuries, or decades, or even years. To Julien, Magnus is just the coy, flirtatious boy he met in the club all those weeks ago. To Julien, Magnus is only… twenty-two? Twenty-three? Magnus can’t remember which age he said. Regardless. He doesn’t expect that those sort of particulars will come up again in their conversation. He’s in his early twenties. That’s what’s important.

And Julien is forty-three.

So in this little farce that Magnus has created, Julien is the older man. The one with wealth. The one with wisdom. The one with experience (both in the general sense, and in the specifically sexual sense as well). Between the two of them, Julien is the _adult_.

And Magnus is nothing more than his pretty young conquest. Clearly only wanted for his beauty, and his naivety (however insincere it may be), and, partially, just for the _victory_ of it.

Because it’s been seven weeks.

_Seven weeks._

Seven weeks of going to that same club, at the same time, sitting at the same little table, over and over and over again, in hopes that Julien would ‘coincidentally’ be there. Seven weeks of putting on his very best suits, and styling his hair so carefully, and making himself as _enticing_ as polite society will allow - and sometimes facing the crushing disappointment of spending an hour in preparation, just to wait all night for Julien, and see no sign of him. Seven weeks of flirtation. Seven weeks of pretending he doesn’t realize that what he’s doing is flirtatious. Seven weeks of sitting too close, bumping elbows, brushing hands. Seven weeks of offers.

Seven weeks of rejecting each and every one.

And now, here he is. Stepping into the foyer of Julien’s luxurious, _empty_ house.

Even after he takes off his hat and his coat, he feels like he’s wearing about a _thousand_ more layers of clothing than he wants to be. He wonders what Julien would do if Magnus just… kept going. Kicked off his boots, tore off his cravat, stripped down entirely, right here by the coat rack.

Judging by the look on Julien’s face, Magnus certainly doesn’t think he’d mind.

Which makes it almost horribly disappointing when Julien leads him a little ways into the house, and into…

What. A parlor? A library?

It’s definitely not a bedroom, so Magnus doesn’t give a fuck what it is. It’s been almost two months, for god’s sake, how can Julien possibly want to take this any _slower?_

It’s not that Magnus hasn’t enjoyed their little game. He’s enjoyed it thoroughly. The flirting. The rejection. The chase.

The _chase_.

Magnus is used to being the chaser. He has _always_ been the chaser. This is the first time that he’s been chased. The first time in his long life that he’s caught someone’s attention, and they pursued him. The first time someone has tried tirelessly to get him to accept their advances.

The first time he’s been wooed.

It’s rather nice. He thinks he could get used to it.

But honestly, after this many weeks of keeping himself so carefully interested, keeping his demeanor at just the _right_ level of receptiveness to let Julien know that his repeated rejections meant ‘no, not tonight’ and ‘no, not ever’, Magnus doesn’t really have much interest in following the same sort of script anymore. Flirting with Julien has been endlessly amusing, but right now, Magnus would really appreciate skipping right to the sex.

“Would you like a drink?” Julien nods to the rather impressively-stocked sideboard against the far wall.

Magnus blinks. “Surely that won’t be necessary?” He furrows his eyebrows. “You can’t honestly think that you’ll need to get me inebriated before I’ll let you have your way with me. In fact, I’d _prefer_ to be sober.”

Julien just… looks at him. There’s some surprise on his face, yes, but that’s not it. There’s something else.

Magnus just barely keeps himself from smirking, and shrugs instead. “I’m sorry, I thought you said you were sick of the pretense.”

It takes a moment, but eventually, Julien smiles. An honest smile, one that looks genuinely pleased. Or maybe, amused? Maybe he really wasn’t expecting things to go like this. It’s like he’s caught off-guard, but he’s certainly not upset by the sudden change in his plans. He shifts his weight, slouching it all onto one foot. His whole stance gets crooked, but somehow, it just makes him look even _more_ gorgeous than usual. He looks softer. More accessible. “So, you _have_ done this before.”

Magnus purses his lips playfully, like he’s thinking. “Once or twice.” He makes sure he says it with a healthy dose of sarcasm.

Julien laughs.

Oh.

Magnus doesn’t think he’s heard him laugh before. It’s… it’s a good sound. Pleasant. Pleasing.

“Well, that certainly simplifies things.” Julien takes a step in toward him. “I find it gets so _tiring_ to make decisions like this when you’re tiptoeing around euphemisms for the sake of delicacy.”

“I agree. Euphemisms are exhausting,” Magnus says lightly, trying to match Julien’s tone. Trying to ignore the way his heart keeps speeding up as Julien gets closer to him.

“Then, in the interest of keeping things straightforward,” Julien raises one eyebrow, “you’re here to have sex with me. Yes?”

God. Just the _word_ shouldn’t be enough to send a chill up Magnus’s spine. It hasn’t been that long, has it? Magnus has gone significantly longer than this without having sex. Why is he suddenly so desperate? It must have something to do with all this build-up. The weeks spent preparing for this night. That must be what’s making Magnus feel like his mouth might actually start watering if Julien gets any closer to him.

“That was my intention. Yes.”

Julien smiles. Like he’s pleased to hear it. Like he thought there was any chance that Magnus might give a different answer. “And how were you hoping it would happen? The…” he tilts his head, carefully considering what he’s about to say. “The specifics?”

Well. That’s pleasantly surprising. It is such a convenience to get these sort of decisions out of the way before things get going. To know exactly what they’re getting themselves into.

However, in this particular case, “I don’t know. I hadn’t thought that far ahead.” Honestly, with how exquisite Julien looks, and how intensely they’ve been flirting all these weeks, and how _badly_ Magnus wants this, he’s not about to be picky.

Julien’s lips tighten a bit. Like he’s intrigued by the vagueness of that answer. “But you have experience? With a variety of things?”

Magnus almost laughs. He wasn’t really expecting to delve into his sexual history in a context this casual. “Yes. Quite a _large_ variety.”

“Have you ever been fucked?”

Ah.

Well.

Well then. After seven weeks of blatant lies (or lies through omission - after all, it’s not like Magnus has ever told Julien that he _isn’t_ a warlock), perhaps it’s fair that Magnus gives him some honesty. Even just this one piece of it.

“No. I haven’t.”

“But you have been with a man?”

Magnus smirks. “Yes. In _many_ different ways. Just… not that one.” He tries to make a facial expression that would indicate the same flippancy as a shrug. “No one has ever offered. And my own interest has never been great enough to suggest it.”

“Hm.” Julien looks… surprised. Amused, and surprised. “I find it strange that no one has offered, after this much time.”

Magnus laughs before he can think better of it. Because if Julien thinks it’s ‘strange’ that Magnus has gone two decades without this, Magnus wonders what he’d think if he found out it’s actually been two _centuries_.

Julien takes another small step in. They’re _horribly_ close now. Julien is barely taller than Magnus, no more than a full inch. But now, he’s close enough that Magnus has to tilt his chin up, just a tiny bit, in order to feel like they’re on equal ground.

“So, if someone were to offer it? If I were to offer it, right now…” Julien’s eyes are getting intense. Magnus recognizes the expression. It’s the one he gets when he thinks Magnus is about to give in. It’s happened every time Julien finally thought Magnus would agree to go home with him.

But that’s his own damn fault for being presumptive, isn’t it?

“Of course not. Don’t be silly.” It might be overkill, but Magnus scoffs. “I don’t know you. I don’t know what you’re like. You could be downright awful in bed. Why would I trust my first experience with something to a complete stranger?”

He’s expecting Julien to be disappointed, possibly upset (though Magnus sincerely hopes not, since he had much higher hopes for him). But instead… he smiles? Brightly. Entertained. “Are you suggesting that if I perform well enough tonight, I can earn the privilege of fucking you at some point in the future?”

Hm.

That…

Hm.

“Admittedly, that was _not_ what I meant.” Magnus bites down lightly on the inside of his cheek. “But, hearing you phrase it like that… it does sound quite nice.”

Julien’s smile turns into a _grin_. “I accept your challenge.”

Magnus… giggles. It’s stupid. But he can’t help it.

He’s been looking forward to this for some time. He knew what to expect. He knew to expect some pretty spectacular sex.

He didn’t expect that he might have some fun along the way.

Julien’s face falls a bit. He doesn’t look any less eager, just more… severe. Serious. His eyes are locked on Magnus’s. After a few moments of stillness, he swallows. Magnus can see his Adam’s apple move in his throat.

“I don’t love you, you know.”

Magnus is so taken aback that he laughs. Loud, and startled. “Of course you don’t. Why would you?”

Julien doesn’t laugh. “I want to make sure you know what this is. Before it happens. I don’t want you to think this is something… else. Something more.”

That’s… good. It’s a good thing for him to say. Magnus knows that. It’s entirely possible that this young, naive man Magnus is pretending to be might get swept away in the intensity of what’s about to happen. It’s good of Julien to clarify this.

But it feels fucking ridiculous. Almost _offensively_ so.

To even suggest that Magnus might be confusing this one night of sex with something like love. That Magnus could possibly feel love for Julien, this man that he’s known for only a few moments. That Magnus could possibly feel love…

Hm. That Magnus could possible feel love. Again.

Because he can’t. He knows he can’t. He’s already had that. He’s had it. And he’s lost it.

And he’s done.

It’s been forty-nine years. Damn near half a century. He’s not really… grieving, anymore. That’s done. He’s… fine. He’s together. He’s himself again. But he’s still very aware that part of him is gone. In a way that can’t come back.

After all, when he thinks about ‘love’, all he can do is remember the last time he’d felt it. The very last moment it was still his. He feels it again. He feels her sag in his arms, just a little bit. He feels her breathe out against his cheek.

He remembers how long he’d held still, how long he’d held his own breath, waiting to feel her breathe in again.

He’d given all of his love to Luzia. And it’s still hers. He doesn’t have any left.

But that doesn’t matter. It has nothing to do with this. It’s not as though Magnus is expecting to get some sort of commitment out of Julien. Some sort of relationship. It’s not as though this is the first time he’s had an enjoyable night of sex since Luzia died. It’s perhaps a little less _anonymous_ than his usual brand of tryst, what with the seven weeks he’s spent interacting with Julien before this moment, but still.

It’s sex.

That’s all it is.

“I don’t want you to love me,” Magnus says firmly. “That’s not why I came here.”

And Julien is…

Relieved. Like he thought it might actually be a concern. “That’s good to know.”

It’s odd.

Magnus wonders if Julien might be hiding just as much history from Magnus as Magnus is hiding from him. There’s obviously quite a bit that they’re not telling each other (it’s not as though they’ve gone into their life stories in any of their brief encounters over glasses of brandy). After all, Julien has never even attempted to hide the ring on his left hand. A wedding band, if ever Magnus saw one. Julien has never acknowledged it. And he’s never taken it off, either.

Because they don’t talk. They don’t say things that are unnecessary to their little game.

They don’t need to. It’s not why they’re here.

Magnus can’t wait any longer. He needs this. He needs this more than he thought.

He takes his lower lip between his teeth. Runs his tongue across it. Makes sure it’ll have that tiny bit of wetness on it when Julien sees it.

They’re so close.

Julien takes a deep breath, eyes locked on Magnus’s lips. He sighs out. Quiet. Deep.

He tilts his face, getting himself to the best possible angle to-

Magnus parts his lips. Sucks in a desperate breath.

And Julien-

Doesn’t move.

He just… stays there. His eyes closed. His lips parted. His breath warm on Magnus’s face.

His lips so fucking close.

It’s as close as they can possibly be without actually kissing. Magnus can feel the heat of Julien’s skin, feel that spark of contact where there lips are _just barely_ not touching yet.

And they stay there.

It must be hours. Weeks. _Years_. Magnus thinks the entire seventeenth century must have gone by faster than this.

Julien moves his face. Barely. It’s the smallest movement imaginable.

So it absolutely should not send all of Magnus’s blood rushing to his cock. For fuck’s sake, they’re not even kissing yet. They haven’t touched. Magnus knows he’s feigning a bit of overall inexperience, but he bets he’ll have Julien pretty damn convinced it’s real if Magnus is completely hard before they have any contact whatsoever.

Julien’s hand brushes Magnus’s elbow, and Magnus curses the invention of clothing. Because that’s what Julien is touching. Fabric. His touch is so goddamn light that he doesn’t make any real contact with Magnus. Even as he keeps ghosting his hand up Magnus’s arm. It’s still nothing.

Magnus whimpers.

What the _fuck?_

What was that? What’s wrong with him?

Julien exhales against Magnus’s lips. Sharply. With the tiniest hint of a laugh.

Magnus surrenders the last bit of hope that he won’t be completely erect by the time Julien puts him out of his misery and finally kisses him. Hell, at this rate, one measly kiss will probably be enough to make him come. Standing here in this parlor, fully clothed, not being touched at all, just casually having an orgasm.

This is ridiculous. Magnus feels like he’s dying.

Julien’s other hand rests against Magnus’s hip. It’s the most solid contact they’ve had so far. It’s enough to make Magnus whimper again.

He’s not sure how much of this he can take. He’d take matters into his own hands and kiss Julien’s goddamn lips right off of his fucking face… if he could just make himself _move_.

“Julien,” he whispers, because it’s the only word he can think of. He tries to make it sound as pleading as possible.

“Magnus,” Julien whispers right back. It’s barely even voiced, but it still sounds… triumphant. Eager.

Magnus can only hope that means-

It’s like a dam breaking.

Julien’s lips finally touch his, and the entire world becomes a blur.

Julien shoves at Magnus’s hip, and Magnus gladly lets himself be slammed up against the nearest bookcase. The shelves don’t really hit his back where he wants them to (and he’s pretty sure a few things fall to the floor with noises that sound alarmingly like glass shattering), but Julien presses against him with his whole body and makes a very enthusiastic attempt to taste the back of Magnus’s throat… so it’s not like Magnus is complaining.

Actually, he’s mostly just… moaning. Right into Julien’s mouth. He pulls Julien closer against him, basically clawing at his hips and shoulders-

Oh. It seems as though that build-up didn’t get have quite the same _effect_ on Julien that it did on Magnus. That’s rather embarrassing, actually. He must be able to feel how unreasonably hard Magnus is.

Well. It shouldn’t be too difficult to change that.

Magnus starts tearing at Julien’s clothing, desperately reminding himself that he can’t just poof it all away (good _god_ it’s going to be difficult to keep his magic quiet tonight). He needs to get his hand on Julien’s cock as soon as possible. Maybe both hands. Maybe his mouth.

Julien grabs his wrist. Stops him. Pulls his mouth away. Steps back.

“How _dare_ you interrupt us at a time like this,” Magnus says breathlessly, unashamed of the petulance in his voice.

Julien laughs, and Magnus feels even more outrage at the fact that he still has enough control to laugh properly. “This seems better suited to the bedroom, don’t you think?”

Magnus scoffs. “Nonsense. This carpet looks perfectly lovely.”

“The bed is much nicer. It’s a beautiful bed-”

“Then we must make sure it doesn’t get too egotistical, musn’t we?” Magnus fists his hands in Julien’s vest, trying to pull him back in. “If we have sex right here it’d be such a lovely boost of morale for the carpet.”

Julien is _still_ laughing, and Magnus doesn’t know if he wants to fuck him, or punch him in the face. “We’re having sex in the bedroom, or not at all.” He takes another step back. “Come.”

“Yes, that’s what I’m _trying_ to do,” Magnus snaps. “I don’t want to waste time walking for no goddamn reason.”

“Alright then.” Julien still sounds _infinitely_ pleased with himself as he steps back in-

And scoops Magnus off of the floor.

Magnus wraps his legs around Julien’s waist - but only because he knows he’ll fall if he doesn’t. He’s not conceding. “This was not part of the deal. I object to this.”

“I do better in the bedroom,” Julien says lightly, squeezing Magnus’s thigh as he carries him out of the parlor. “If this is my one chance to impress you, I’m not going to squander it.”

Something about the tone of his voice, and the _look_ in his eye…

If things are already this intense, if Magnus is already hard just from the anticipation, if Julien is already trying to be impressive as possible…

If things are already this good, what is the rest of the night going to be like?

Magnus smiles. And since he’s going to have to waste all this time traveling to the bedroom, he busies himself with divesting Julien of his cravat.

Yes. This is going to be fun.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original author's notes can be found [here](http://my-nameless-bliss.tumblr.com/post/151809477366).


	3. Magnus & Etta - First Kiss

Manhattan, NY - 1938

 

It’s a beautiful night.

Magnus laughs quietly to himself.

Of _course_ it’s a beautiful night. It has to be. It has to be unseasonably pleasant. It had rained all afternoon, but of course it’s cleared up now. Not a cloud in the sky. It’s like something out of a fairytale.

Which makes sense, because that’s exactly what Magnus is experiencing right now.

A fairytale.

Etta’s arm slips a bit. She pulls back, so her arm isn’t looped through his anymore, but her hand is resting lightly in the crook of his elbow. It’s unseasonably warm, but her hand is a little chilly.

Well, Magnus can’t have that.

He manufactures a little bit of heat, right in the bend of his arm. Not enough to be suspicious, but enough to keep her fingers warm. He doesn’t think she notices.

He reminds himself that that’s a _good_ thing. His intense desire to impress her doesn’t mean that he can suddenly reveal all of the Shadow World to her, just so he can show her a few magic tricks.

(Well, he’d pulled that flower out of ‘thin air’ to put behind her ear, but it was just in his sleeve, and mundane magic from novelty shops doesn’t count.)

They’ve been walking for over half an hour.

And before that, they’d danced for nearly three hours.

God, her poor feet must be _aching_. Magnus’s are even getting sore, and he’s not wearing cute little heels like she is.

He’d offered to get a taxi for them. But she’d said no. She wanted to walk, even knowing the distance.

Magnus smiles.

She wanted to walk with him.

It’s a little tricky to work without complete focus, and without her noticing, but Magnus does his very best to send a nice pulse of magic to soothe some of the ache in her feet.

He laughs.

It’s such a beautiful night.

They’ve stopped talking, for the past few blocks. Magnus certainly doesn’t mind. Etta doesn’t seem to mind either.

After all, they’ve talked plenty. They talked for hours in the dance hall. They talked the entire walk, up until now. They’ve talked so much. Etta’s told him about her father, how he’s overbearing, but well-meaning. About her sister, who was going to school all the way in France, but came home to help out after their mother died. About her singing, which she does every now and then, in seedy little clubs, but that she wants to do more. For the rest of her life.

And Magnus has told her…

Fuck.

Magnus has told her so much. Too much. He doesn’t know why, but he hasn’t been able to shut the fuck up since he first approached her at the bar, all those hours ago. By now, with the bizarre scope and _variety_ of the stories he’s told her about his life, she must think he’s either a pathological liar, or a shadier figure than the Count of Monte Cristo and the Great Gatsby combined.

He doesn’t know why he’s told her so much. True things. Real stories (with the dates conveniently shaved off, and some of the details smoothed out or omitted as needed to keep everything believably within the twentieth century). Things he hasn’t told anyone in decades.

Things he’s… never told anyone, ever.

He’s told Etta. Tonight.

He’s only known her for, what, four hours?

Which means he’s been in love with her for just over three.

It wasn’t instant. Not quite. After three hundred years and change without seeing any proof of it, Magnus has no reason to believe that ‘love at first sight’ really exists.

But… significance. Intuition.

Intuition at first sight. Magnus believes in that. The first moment he saw Etta, saw the way she was smiling at the friend who was talking to her, Magnus had known. That she was going to be… something. Someone.

Someone important.

So it was entirely unsurprising for him to realize - less than an hour later, when she’d finally smiled that way at _him_ \- that he was in love.

He’s in love.

He laughs again. Laughs into the comfortable silence between them.

Etta shakes her head and rolls her eyes. Fondly. Like this is just something they do. Like this is the thousandth night he’s walked her home, not the first. Like this is established. Like this is how they are.

Magnus laughs, at nothing at all, and Etta fondly accepts his silliness. Tilts her head, tries to hide her smile against his shoulder.

They’re crossing neighborhoods again. The sounds of the city are starting to fade, but the sounds of city _life_ are starting to take over. Radios blaring out open windows. Fights being picked in alleys. Men shouting on stoops and landings, mostly drunk, mostly enthusiastic. Honking.

It’s well past midnight. Why are so many people honking? It’s ruining the mood.

Magnus slips his free hand into the pocket of his jacket. So he can hide the blue glow that gathers in his fingertips.

The noise… muffles. Softens. It’s still there, but it’s gentler. There’s a little bubble of peace around them.

That’s better.

“It’s just at the end of this block,” Etta says, nodding to the row of mismatched apartment buildings on their right.

Well, that’s the worst news Magnus has heard this century. Possibly ever.

What can he do? Switch the house numbers? Change the locks? He can’t portal them a few blocks back - Etta would _probably_ notice that.

But he can’t say goodnight. Goodbye. Not yet.

Not ever.

Magnus slows down as they approach the small flight of stairs that lead up to the main door. Maybe if he stops walking, she won’t have to leave.

The streets have all been busy, but her building’s stoop is empty. Just the stairs, and a landing, and a street light. It’s beautiful. Idyllic.

Heartbreaking.

“I don’t suppose I could persuade you into one more dance?” Magnus turns, angling away from the building and toward her. “I am _certain_ that we could find a dance hall that’ll be open another hour, at least.”

Etta laughs, her quiet, easy laugh. “Now, Mr. Bane, we have been over this before. I promised my sister I’d be home by two. If I’m a moment late, she’ll tear apart the whole city to find me.” She raises an eyebrow. “Unless you weren’t _listening_ when I told you.”

Magnus grins, and takes her hand where it’s still resting on his other arm. “You know I’ve been hanging on every word, dear.”

She rolls her eyes at him, with a little smile in one corner of her mouth. Magnus has already lost count of how many times she’s shown him this exact expression.

For a moment, neither of them move. Magnus rubs his thumb back and forth across Etta’s hand, but apart from that, everything is still. Even the breeze seems to have stopped rustling through their clothes.

Magnus could stay like this forever.

After what might only be a few seconds (time isn’t working right for Magnus tonight, so he has no idea how quickly or slowly it’s passing), Etta ducks her head, with a little laugh. “I need to be _inside_ by two,” she says wryly. “Are you plannin’ on keeping me on this stoop until dawn?”

Magnus takes her hand in both of his, lifting it away from his arm. He takes a moment to play with her fingers. “Am I somehow preventing you from going inside?”

Etta hums. Her smile is more of a smirk now. “Are you really expecting me to leave before you’ve said goodnight?” She quirks an eyebrow, just for a moment. “I thought you had better manners than that.” She pauses a moment. Takes a breath. “I was hoping,” her voice is quieter, more sincere. “I was hoping you might be sorry to see me go.”

Magnus’s head tips to one side. He feels… weak. Light, like his body doesn’t have as much substance as it should. Giddy. “Honestly, darling, I’m worried that having to watch you walk away might kill me.”

Etta gives a… thoughtful look. Like she’s deciding if a line like that is going to work on her.

Magnus almost can’t breathe as he watches her, waiting to learn his fate-

Etta presses her lips together. Moves them, just a bit. Like she’s rubbing them together… to hide a smile.

Magnus hopes it’s not too forward of him to stare so openly at her mouth. But he’s not sure he’s capable of looking away.

He wants to kiss her. _God_ , he wants to kiss her. He’s wanted to kiss her since the very first moment she looked at him. The first moment of eye contact. But he’s given up on that hope by now. After all, he’s asked her. _Many_ times. Any time there was a shift in their conversation. Any time she showed him a bit more warmth, a bit more fondness. Any time she seemed like she might say yes, he’s asked if he could.

And she’s said no. Every. Single. Time.

But it’s never been with any sort of… severity. She’s denied him with amusement, not annoyance. It’s the reason he’s kept asking. If she seemed genuinely uninterested in the offer, he would have given up several hours ago.

And now…

But he doesn’t want to presume. After all, this is the end of the night. This is it. If he ruins this, he’s ruined all of it. There’s still a possibility that she won’t want to see him again, that she liked him enough to share one interesting night, but that’s all. Magnus could still be an odd little story that she tells her friends, and nothing more.

And he can’t have that. So he’s not going to do anything that could possibly disappoint her. He can’t tell what she’s thinking, and he’s not going to pretend that he can.

They’re standing closer together now. Her hand his still in both of his, and he realizes that he’s holding it close to his chest. He’s not sure he can make himself let go. He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to say. He-

Hm.

He doesn’t know what to say.

That’s… unusual. Unfamiliar.

New.

Walking someone home after a wonderful night of dancing and drinking. This is… This is what he does. This is his territory. The only situation where he’s more at ease is when he’s at work. This is second-nature to him. He’s done this more times than he can comprehend.

But, he supposes… he’s never really been in _this_ situation before. Not this exactly.

He’s never stood at someone’s door, waiting to say goodnight after their _first_ night together…

And been in love.

He’s completely wrong-footed. He doesn’t know what to do with this. What to do with her. What to do with himself.

What can he say? He’s already said so much tonight. He wants to tell her everything. He wants to keep talking, keep her here, with him. He doesn’t know how to say goodnight. Doesn’t know how he can suggest an ending to this night, not knowing if he’ll have another. It’s too much. He can’t say anything, in case it’s the wrong thing, and that’s the end of it. He’s-

He’s nervous.

It’s almost funny. To think that Magnus Bane is too nervous to talk to this pretty girl. In any other situation, he’d laugh at himself.

Etta is looking at him, so expectantly.

He doesn’t know what to say. He just tightens his hold on her hand, the tiniest bit.

His sudden fear must be visible on his face, because Etta smiles at him. A fond, almost teasing smile.

“Well, are you going to kiss me or not?”

Something jolts out of Magnus’s spine, running all the way down his legs, threatening to make his knees give out. God, she’s _literally_ making him weak in the knees. He squeezes her hand too hard, and has to force himself to loosen his grip. Because this is it. Finally. After all this time, all these hours, all these tries, this is finally-

Oh.

Wait.

Magnus smiles.

“Which would you prefer?”

Etta’s eyebrows raise, a subtle, subdued look of surprise.

And she _smiles_. That smile. The one that had first caught Magnus’s eye. The one he’d tried to earn for himself, the one he’d spent all night trying to see directed at him. The one that had made him realize he was in love the very _instant_ she’d shown it to him.

She moves forward. They’re already standing so close, she can’t even take a full step in. She just shifts a little on her worn-out feet, shifts in toward him, rests her weight lightly against his chest. “I’d very much prefer that you kiss me, Mr. Bane.”

Magnus’s first impulse is to give in, _finally_ give in, sweep her into his arms and kiss her stupid for the next hour or so.

But this is… new. It’s new for him.

He’s never been in love with someone _before_ he kissed them. He’s never had this sort of anticipation, this sort of feeling swirling around in his chest, and then added the anticipation of a first kiss. It’s…

Overwhelming.

But since this is the first time he’s experienced this - and quite possibly the _only_ time he’ll experience it - he figures he might as well take his time.

He finally lets go of her hand, even though it gives him a slight twinge of disappointment to do so.

And instead, he touches her face. First his right hand, high on her cheek. And then his left, brushing along her jaw. He cradles her face in his hands, and feels something terribly similar to magic spark in his chest when she tips her face up toward him.

He’s over a full head taller than her. He has to duck quite a bit to bring his face as close as he wants to be. But he doesn’t bring their faces completely together. Not yet.

Her eyes are already closed. Lips already parted, just the tiniest bit.

Magnus feels so much warm anticipation, it’s like he’s drunk with it. He runs his thumb just below her lips, as soft and careful as possible (after all, he’d hate to smudge her beautiful red lipstick).

Etta’s lips twitch, like the smallest hint of a smile. Her eyelids flutter, like she might open them again…

But she doesn’t. She just tilts her face even further. Tries to get even closer to him.

It’s too much.

Something lights up in Magnus as he kisses her. All the way in his blood. Warm, and tingling, and so, _so_ comfortable.

Familiar.

He feels like he’s been kissing her his whole life. Like he’s known her all these hundreds of years. And loved her, every single one of them.

Magnus’s hands slip down to either side of her neck. He pulls back for a moment, just so he can brush his lips against hers, before really kissing her again. He makes sure it’s still… simple. That it’s not too much. But even so, this soft, chaste kiss feels like the deepest he’s ever had.

He could stay here all night. Longer than that. Much longer.

But he can’t. Etta needs to get home. He knows that.

Still, it’s so difficult to make himself pull away.

When Magnus opens his eyes, Etta is already looking at him.

Smiling at him.

Oh. Magnus can’t handle this.

“Can I see you again?” He asks, pretending that he isn’t breathless.

He assumes she’ll turn wry, playfully roll her eyes, tease him again. But her smile is still devastatingly honest. “Yes.” Her hands - which had been resting against Magnus’s chest - slip up to his shoulders. “Can you kiss me again?”

Magnus tries to laugh, but he’s afraid it sounds more like a groan. “Yes.”

Etta’s already looping her arms around Magnus’s neck, lifting onto her tiptoes, pulling herself up to him.

So Magnus wraps his arms around her waist. Helps lift her that last bit of distance.

Etta hums against his lips, a small, _beautiful_ sound. She freezes for a moment, like she’s uncertain-

And then she touches the tip of her tongue to Magnus’s lower lip.

God, Magnus can’t remember the last time he felt this weak. Powerless. Like there’s nothing else in his life more important than this. Like he’d do anything to keep having this.

He could kiss her for _years_ without stopping, and never get tired of it.

Unfortunately, no more than a few minutes must go by before Magnus forces himself away. But he can’t make himself go very far, just enough to free his lips. “Don’t you have to be getting upstairs? I’d hate to get you into trouble.”

Etta’s breathing heavily. It’s surprising, because Magnus feels like he can’t breathe at all.

And, because the world is a cruel, _cruel_ place, she lets go of him. Steps back. Puts actual distance between them.

But she’s still smiling.

“I don’t go out much,” she says lightly. “I work most nights. If you want to see me again, it can’t be ‘til next weekend.” She raises an eyebrow. “Can you wait that long?”

Magnus laughs. Quietly. More breath than sound. “Darling, I would wait centuries for you.”

Etta rolls her eyes, and puts a hand to her mouth, like she’s hiding her smile.

And she turns away from him. Goes up the stairs.

“If you don’t mind,” Magnus says quickly, practically hopping up the steps after her, “I won’t feel like I’ve properly shown you home until I know you’ve made it into your apartment.”

Etta pauses, with her hand already on the door. She looks terribly amused. “Oh, now, that is a _pathetic_ attempt to get me to invite you upstairs.” She shakes her head. “Really, I expected better from you.”

Magnus holds up his hands in surrender, trying not to smile and ruin his credibility. “My intentions are honorable, I promise. I don’t even need to go upstairs. Just let me know you’ve made it inside. I can’t bear the thought that I’ve abandoned you to find that you’ve been locked out of your apartment.”

Etta has that look again, the one where it’s clear that she’s going through his words one by one, judging them against his expression, his tone, his posture. Deciding if she’s going to believe him. Deciding if he’s charming, or just full of bullshit.

After a moment, she opens the door. And holds it open.

Magnus grins, and steps in to get his hand on the door. It doesn’t quite count as holding it for her (since she was the one who opened it), but he hopes the gesture is still valid.

Etta looks at him for a few seconds, like she might say something else.

God, Magnus hopes she says something else.

She’s silent. But she lifts her hand, and touches his face. Briefly. She just rests her fingers on his jaw, and runs her thumb across his cheek.

With that smile of hers.

And she’s gone. Disappearing into the dim-lit entryway and delicately climbing the first flight of stairs (with a dignity and poise that should be impossible, considering the state of her feet after this long night).

Magnus waits in the doorway, hearing the sounds of her light footsteps. Getting quieter, and the slightest bit slower, as she goes up one flight… two…

And then, the sound of a key in a lock. Some shifting. A door opening.

“Goodnight, Mr. Bane,” Etta’s voice carries down the stairwell. Teasingly playful, but warm.

“Goodnight, Miss Jackson,” Magnus calls back, matching her tone.

He feels lightheaded as he closes the door.

He looks around the street, blinking too much.

Where is he?

He hadn’t been paying attention on their walk. Etta knew where she was going, and Magnus let himself be led without giving it a thought.

He’s disoriented. The night air that was so pleasantly warm feels a little colder without her snuggled up to his side.

It takes him a moment to get his bearings. Walk down the steps to the street. He’s damn near half an hour away from home on foot, and he considers using a bit of magic to do the traveling for him…

He rubs his lips together. He can feel the tiniest bit of her lipstick, that hint of waxiness between his lips.

It’s ridiculous. This whole thing is absolutely ridiculous. He went to that dance hall tonight for a bit of fun. He hasn’t danced in a while. He wanted to dance. He wanted to take someone home. He was certain that this night was going to end with him in his own bed, accompanied by an attractive stranger, with the knowledge that his life would be exactly the same in the morning. He wasn’t supposed to meet a stranger, and fall in love with her before they’d even had their first dance. He wasn’t supposed to…

But maybe… he was.

Because he was so ready. When he felt that first twist in his chest, that first impulse rooted so deep in his mind, when he first recognized exactly what it is that he’s feeling for Etta…

He was _so_ ready. He’d welcomed it eagerly. He’d been surprised, and more than a bit confused, but so eager. Happy.

Ready. He’s so ready to love her. He’s so ready to be in love. It’s like he’s been storing up all this love, refusing to let any of it slip out, for years. Decades. Ever since… god, can it be since Camille? Can it be that long? He supposes that’d make sense. Wanting to keep love to himself after that. Not wanting to let anyone else have it. He’s been _hoarding_ his own goddamn love, keeping it all to himself, keeping it locked up so carefully-

And now, here he is. Decades of stored-up feeling, decades of not trusting anyone else enough to give any of this to them. Waiting, without even realizing it. Waiting to let himself feel this again.

And now, she’s finally here.

Magnus wants to touch his lips. But he’s afraid that if he does, some of the memory will go away. It’ll be harder to remember the feel of her lips against his if he lets his lips feel anything else. So he just rubs them together again. Feels that last trace of lipstick. Feels the warmth of her hand on his face.

It’s a half-hour walk back to his brownstone.

Magnus tucks his hands into his pockets. His palms are tingling, matching the butterflies in his stomach.

He smiles. A nice, long walk sounds like a terrific idea.

After all, it’s a beautiful night.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original author's notes can be found [here.](http://my-nameless-bliss.tumblr.com/post/151932504981)


	4. Magnus & Julien - Three Months

Magnus’s heart is still pounding.

That’s unusual. Normally it doesn’t take this long for him to calm down. But it must be damn near ten minutes since they’ve finished, and he can still feel it beating against his ribcage like it’s trying to escape. He can still hear each pulse of his blood pumping. His breathing is still a little strained. His throat still feels a little raw. His limbs are still a little shaky. He’s still a little unsteady, overall.

It’s _wonderful_.

But of course, he’s the only one. Julien is so goddamn relaxed it’s like he just woke up from a full night’s sleep. Magnus’s head is resting on his chest, so he can hear how calm and goddamn steady his heartbeat is. He’s just lying there. As though nothing’s happened. Gently rubbing Magnus’s wrists as though it’s an idle form of affection and not an attempt to soothe away the residual ache.

It’s so unfair it’d be downright infuriating…

If Magnus only had the energy to care.

He supposes he does, a little. Though he’s enjoyed every moment of this little ‘character’ he’s created for himself, it still ruffles his feathers a bit when he somehow manages to seem _genuinely_ less experienced than Julien.

And being incapable of getting himself back under control while Julien is apparently completely unaffected by the sex they just had is more than enough to leave his feathers thoroughly ruffled.

Still, that touch of bitterness is nowhere near bitter enough to counteract the sweetness that’s still very much coursing through him. Even though he knows it’s been several minutes, it feels like it might have only ended a few seconds ago. There’s still the fine tremble in his limbs. The warmth in the pit of his stomach. The lightness in his head.

The pain. Just the right amount of it, in just the right places.

He knows he’ll probably end up using a bit of magic to take care of that in the morning. But for now, it’s perfect.

“Would you like something to drink?”

Julien’s voice is soft. Quiet. Unexpected, in the intensely satisfied silence they’ve kept between them for so many minutes.

Magnus smiles. It’s always so interesting to hear the way his voice changes. Julien has so many different voices. The one he uses when he speaks another language (and Magnus pretends not to understand him, since the only language he knows that Magnus _doesn’t_ is Tagalog - and so far he’s only used that on rare, special occasions). The one he uses when he’s flirting. The one he uses when he feels that his flirting has been successful, and he doesn’t have to try anymore. The one he uses during sex.

And this. The one he uses afterward.

Magnus thinks it’s his favorite. It’s the simplest. The most conversational. The most… honest.

Though Magnus supposes it’s rather hypocritical to value something like _honesty_ from Julien, when he’s offering literally none of it in return.

“A brandy sounds nice,” Magnus mumbles into Julien’s chest.

Julien clicks his tongue admonishingly. “I mean _water_.”

“Yes, and I mean brandy.”

“Brandy isn’t going to be any help for your throat, Maggie.”

Magnus’s eyes may be closed, but he rolls them anyway. “I’m rather certain that brandy can help _anything_ , Jules.”

Julien huffs, and gives Magnus’s leg a little half-hearted kick under the sheets. Julien hates being called Jules.

And Magnus hates being called Maggie.

But, of course, they both insist that they’re only using an annoying nickname to combat their _own_ annoying nickname. And neither of them are going to concede. So here they are.

Julien sighs, the most melodramatically put-upon sigh Magnus has ever heard. “I’ll get you a glass. Of water,” he adds sternly. And he starts to get up-

“No! No no no no,” Magnus wraps his arms around Julien’s torso, as though that could somehow secure him to the bed (and wouldn’t that be an interesting turn of events for them?). “Don’t leave, I’m too comfortable.”

“Maggie,” Julien says in that tone, the one that’s clearly patronizing, clearly coming from a place of superiority… but somehow in a way that’s also strangely fond. Like Magnus is so foolish that it makes him cute. Like a puppy.

But he doesn’t get up. He stays right where he is, tangled up with Magnus, gently rubbing his shoulders - since his wrists are still buried somewhere in the bedding beneath Julien.

Although, now that Magnus thinks about it… he _does_ need a glass of water. His throat hasn’t felt this raw in quite some time.

Dammit. Times like this, Magnus really has to weigh the importance of his mundane persona against the goddamn _inconvenience_ of not using his magic. By now, he could have gotten them both a drink, healed his wrists (and the many other places that are feeling less-than-spectacular), cleaned them both up, re-tied the cords to the bed curtains, and re-stoked the dying fire.

But all he can do is lie here, and be useless, and pretend that he _enjoys_ being useless. Pretend he likes that Julien will get water for him. Pretend he likes that Julien will put the bedroom back in order. Pretend that he likes having Julien take care of him.

Well…

There’s a small chance that it’s not _all_ pretending. Some of it is actually quite nice.

Still, he wonders if he could at least get Julien to turn his back long enough to magically tie up the curtains.

Hell, something that small, maybe he could even get away with it if Julien were watching. Mundane ‘magicians’ are becoming more and more popular these days. Maybe Julien could believe it’s an innocent illusion.

Sometimes he genuinely thinks it’d be easier to just tell him. Magnus has never spent this much time with a mundane without at least _hinting_ that there’s something ‘unusual’ about him. It’s getting rather bothersome to keep everything hidden (particularly considering how much of their time together is spent in situations that make it rather _difficult_ for him to control his magic). There are just too many details involved. Too many things he can’t say. Too many things he needs to maintain, too often. By now, it’s basically second-nature for him to keep a human glamour on his eyes, but being with Julien requires more. He can’t even remember the last time he needed to glamour himself a navel. Normally, when he’s with a mundane like this, he either makes sure they won’t see his stomach long enough to notice, or he makes sure they’re in a situation where they won’t care, or they’ll will themselves to dismiss such a small abnormality.

With Julien, he needs to watch everything. Every detail. Every feature. Every spark. Almost every damn night, for three months. It’s getting exhausting.

“How are you feeling?” Julien asks quietly. It’s his usual question. He always asks it when they’re done.

It’s a small consideration. But it’s rather nice. Magnus has certainly been with people who have treated him as roughly as Julien does, and not given half as much effort to make up for it with kindness afterward.

“Mmmm,” Magnus shifts and stretches a bit, trying to get an accurate answer. “Excellent. Well, you know, I’m not sure I’ll be able to walk for a few days, but I’ve become rather accustomed to that lately.”

Julien laughs without sound, just breath and shaking shoulders. His hands slip down Magnus’s back, running lightly over the shape of his spine, stopping just short of his ass (which is another small kindness, since that part of Magnus is _particularly_ sore right now, and not in a way that a good fondling would be able to fix). “It’s getting late, Maggie. Actually, by now it’s probably getting early.” He nudges Magnus’s legs with his feet. “I don’t mean to rush you, but it’s much later than you usually stay. I don’t want to interfere with your morning schedule.”

Hm.

That’s…

Magnus can’t tell if that’s nice. If he’s saying that because he’s genuinely worried about Magnus having lost track of time-

Or if he is just trying to get rid of him.

Magnus forces himself up. Forces himself to lift his head away from Julien’s chest. But he doesn’t go far. He pulls his arms out from under Julien’s back (and ignores the tingles and pricks in his hands as the blood rushes back to them), and props himself up on his elbows.

Julien’s head is resting on the haphazard pile of pillows crammed against the headboard. It puts him right at Magnus’s eye level. There are only a few inches of space between their faces.

Magnus looks at him.

And, as always, looking at him is… strange. It feels strange.

It’s not as though he’s hard on the eyes. He’s beautiful. It’s something else. It’s…

The similarity is striking. It’s not as though they actually look alike, but there’s just… enough. Similar features. Similar height and build. Julien is thinner than him, and his hair is longer, but that’s it. Magnus doesn’t think he’s ever been with someone who looks this much like him.

Except…

The details draw Magnus’s gaze. Always. It’s inescapable.

The matching streaks of gray at either temple. The shining silver hairs, catching the dim light of the fire. The fine wrinkles, around his eyes, his mouth.

He doesn’t look old. He looks mature. Distinguished. He doesn’t look _old_.

But still. He looks older than Magnus ever will.

It’s bizarre. It makes Magnus’s gut twist up like a crumpled piece of paper. Seeing this man who is so much younger than Magnus, so young that Magnus doesn’t remember what it was like to be that young. Magnus doesn’t remember his forties. That was centuries ago. Lifetimes ago. Julien is younger than Magnus can remember.

And he’s also older than Magnus will ever be.

He doesn’t know why that hits him like this. With Julien. He was with Luzia when she was _decades_ older than Julien is now. His few wrinkles and gray hairs are nothing compared to the way Magnus saw age affect her. But he never had thoughts like this.

Maybe he couldn’t see himself in Luzia quite the same way that he sees himself in Julien.

Or maybe… it’s because this is the only age he’s ever known Julien to be. With Luzia, Magnus saw age take her gradually. It’s hard to notice someone become old when you’ve seen every day of the progression. To Magnus, Luzia was always just herself. There was no comparison to be made.

With Julien, this is just… how Magnus knows him. Middle-aged. A bit wrinkled. A bit gray. A bit old.

It’s difficult for Magnus to look at him. To see what he’ll never be. To see what he… might have been.

Julien misreads the intention behind Magnus’s sudden scrutiny. Because after a minute or two of this intense examination, he lifts a hand, and gently cups Magnus’s cheek.

And Magnus flinches away from his touch. Like he’s been slapped, not caressed.

Julien immediately pulls his hand back, and carefully rests it against Magnus’s shoulder instead. Because his shoulders are fine. Julien can touch those. They’ve both figured that out.

It’s a rather extensive, complicated list. The list of what types of affection are or aren’t acceptable for Magnus. And Magnus couldn’t explain the distinctions if his life depended on it. He just… knows. When he feels something, he can tell. If he’s comfortable feeling it from Julien, or if it feels wrong. If it feels like Julien shouldn’t be allowed to do it.

If it feels like it still belongs to Luzia.

Magnus closes his eyes, and bites the inside of his cheek. Hard.

It’s stupid. It’s so goddamn stupid. He started having sex again decades ago. But if someone tries holding his hand, it feels wrong. Sickeningly wrong. Like he’s dishonoring her somehow. Like it’s disrespectful to her memory. Like that type of affection should only be hers. Forty-nine years, and he still can’t get past that.

And the ‘rules’ aren’t even black and white. It doesn’t make any goddamn sense. He doesn’t know why sex is fine. Why kissing is fine. Why he loves having Julien tug his hair during sex, but Julien trying to play with his hair _after_ sex makes him feel physically ill.

It’s ridiculous. Considering the extensive, varied, impressive list of things that Magnus has gladly let Julien to do him.

And he can’t handle having his face caressed.

But as always, Julien respects it. He’s never asked questions (beyond the questions he needs to ask to figure out how to keep Magnus comfortable). He’s never demanded explanations. Magnus doesn’t know why Julien thought touching his face was suddenly acceptable, but at least he gave up instantly when he realized it wasn’t.

It’s stupid. It’s all stupid. It’s all so fucking stupid.

Well. Maybe that makes this even better timing. To try something new. To ask for something new. When things are already a little strange.

“I was actually considering- well, _wondering_ , I suppose.” He looks at Julien again. Tilts his head. Tries to look earnest. Tries to look… appealing. “I was wondering if I might spend the night here. It is such a long, cold ride home, after all.”

It’s bold of him. He knows that. They don’t have an ‘after’. Yes, Julien takes care of him, makes sure he’s alright, makes sure he feels kindness and consideration. But that’s it. The most they ever have is a drink. If they’re going to spend any time together, it’s always before the sex. They dine together some nights. Some nights, Magnus gets there hours before he’s supposed to, and spends the evening trying to entice Julien away from his work.

No matter what it is, it’s all before. There’s no after. They have sex, and Magnus goes home.

But tonight, he doesn’t want to. He’s tired. He’s sore. He’s comfortable. And he’s already curled up naked in a cozy bed. It’s only logical that he stay here. He wants to go to bed, and he’s already _in_ bed. It has nothing to do with Julien, really. He’s not looking for affection. For more time with him. This decision is based entirely on practicality. Magnus would much rather get out of bed and make his way back home in the morning, when he’s less tired, less sore, and doesn’t have to wake up and get dressed just to get undressed and fall back asleep at home. It’s logical. That’s all this is. Logic.

Which makes it slightly off-putting for him to realize that Julien does not look at _all_ happy with the request.

His eyebrows are knit. His mouth is tight. There’s suddenly tension in his limbs. Magnus can feel it.

But it only lasts a minute. Then he puts on a neutral, almost impassive expression. “Alright. I’ll have a bedroom made up for you.”

Magnus-

Magnus briefly feels like the entire world has been pulled out from under his feet. He’s so wrong-footed that he can’t remember how to speak.

He finally gets his wits about him again. And he smirks, trying to look more playful than he feels. “ _This_ bed isn’t big enough for both of us?”

Julien doesn’t smile. “No.”

It’s…

He sounds stern. Almost… harsh.

Magnus wasn’t… expecting this. He assumed it was a yes or no question. He didn’t think there was a third option. He assumed that if Julien didn’t want him to spend the night, he’d _say_ he didn’t want him to spend the night.

He didn’t think that Julien just wouldn’t want them to spend the night… together.

He’s…

Magnus still doesn’t feel like he has a full grasp on the situation. “I…” he tries for levity again, puts on a crooked smile, gives an insincere little laugh, “I have to sleep in a _guest_ room?” He does his best to teasingly emphasize the absurdity of it.

And Julien still doesn’t smile. “Or, if you’d prefer, you can go home.”

So.

That’s it, then?

He’s…

Magnus sits up. It takes a bit of rearranging, biting back winces from straining his aching body. But he gets himself up, sitting back on his heels. Away from Julien. It pulls the sheets off of both of them, and for the briefest moment, Magnus almost feels… embarrassed. Like he should try to cover himself.

Fuck. That’s how bad it is. How thrown he is.

Because he’s being kicked out of bed.

He’s literally being kicked out of his lover’s bed right now.

He almost wants to laugh. He’s had a lot of new experiences with Julien, but something like _this_ wasn’t exactly on his list of interests. In over two hundred years, no one has ever done this to him. People have wanted him to leave, of course. People have made it clear that when they were finished, they were _finished_. Magnus has had numerous encounters where he has been expected to leave in a timely fashion.

But he’s never been sent away, after the fact. Unexpectedly. Sent to a guest room for the night. Like a dirty house pet that can’t be trusted, and has to be banished while its owners sleep.

Honestly, it’s not as though Magnus considers this to be much of a relationship, but after three goddamn months, he thought Julien might tolerate him enough to sleep in the same room for a measly handful of hours.

It’s a big bed. They could have their own space.

After a moment, as with all of Julien’s other, more noticeable idiosyncrasies, Magnus finds his gaze wandering to Julien’s left hand. To the ring on his fourth finger.

And, as always, Julien sees him looking.

And, as _always_ , Julien bristles. Pulls his shoulders back. Sets his jaw. Magnus can physically _see_ his resolve hardening. Like a challenge. Like he’s daring Magnus to question him.

It’s…

Well. It may not seem ‘fair’, per se, but Magnus is well aware that it’s within Julien’s rights. It’s not unreasonable. Yes, it seems like a rather ridiculous limit to have, but still. If Julien is comfortable with having Magnus in this bed when they’ve fucked, but suddenly feels like protecting the sanctity of the ‘marriage bed’ when it comes to something as simple as _sleeping_ , well. That’s his prerogative. After all, it’s his life. His bed.

His marriage.

In another context, Magnus would laugh at the hypocrisy of it. Julien hasn’t so much as acknowledged his marriage, his wife, even his wedding ring. Not once, in all these months. He’s never even taken off the ring. Never. Not even when they fuck. Magnus isn’t sure why he feels compelled to draw the line at something like _this_ -

Magnus takes a deep breath.

It’s not his life. Not his marriage. Not his commitment.

Not his problem.

“Fine.”

Still, however much the rational part of his brain understands that this is a small, unimportant situation, understands that he’s the one intruding into someone else’s life and home and bed, understands that he’s not in a position to demand any sort of consideration…

It’s not enough to keep the irrational part of his brain from flooding him with bitterness as he turns away. Swings his legs over the edge of the bed. Ignores the _overwhelming_ sting in his ass and thighs, even though the bed is incredibly soft.

And he starts searching for his clothes. Because if he’s going to be kicked out of the bedroom like some sort of vagrant nuisance, he’s sure as fuck not going to let Julien pretend he cares enough to find Magnus’s clothes for him.

He has no right to be upset. He knows that.

It’s just a line. One small, unimportant line that’s been drawn. Magnus has dozens of lines that he’s drawn. Simple, stupid things, like where and when he can be touched with any sort of affection. And Julien’s accepted that.

So why the fuck should Magnus be upset about this?

They’re nothing. They are absolutely _nothing_ to each other. He’s known that from the first moment. This is just sex. Just surprisingly good, surprisingly frequent sex. Magnus shouldn’t be shocked that he’s not allowed into Julien’s life. Especially with how little of Magnus’s life he’s allowed Julien to see. Julien knows absolutely nothing about Magnus. So Magnus has no right to know anything about Julien. That’s how this works.

Julien is allowed to wear his wedding ring, without saying a word about it. He’s allowed to kick Magnus out of his bed, to only want to sleep here with her. He’s allowed to tell Magnus when he can and cannot see him, to choose those few nights every month where he practically _forbids_ Magnus from coming over. The nights he’s obviously spending with her. He’s allowed all of this.

Because it’s just sex. They could get this anywhere. They both know that. And hell, it’s not like Magnus hasn’t gone out on some of those nights when Julien shuns him. Had a satisfying evening with someone else. Magnus knows for a fact that he’d be fine without any of this.

He shouldn’t care that he’s not allowed to sleep here.

It’s just…

It’s been three months. And that’s not including the seven weeks it had taken them to get together in the first place. He knows that’s not a commitment. It’s not a relationship. But…

Fuck. It’s something. He doesn’t know what the fuck this is that they have together, but it’s _something_.

And now, he’s getting kicked out of bed.

He actually has to fight to keep himself from scoffing as he tries to figure out which pieces of the jumbled clothing on the floor are his, and which are Julien’s.

Fucking ridiculous.

“Magnus.”

Magnus doesn’t turn around, but he pauses. He can hear Julien move. Sitting up, judging by the dip in the mattress behind him.

“I don’t love you, you know.”

Magnus closes his eyes. And laughs bitterly. Just once.

He’s heard this so many times. Probably every time they’ve been together. It’s almost a joke now. A little inside joke between them. Magnus has heard it so many times.

But he’s never believed it as much as he does now.

At least he knows what to say. They’ve rehearsed this script plenty of times, after all.

He forces himself to get out of bed, gathering up the clothes in his arms to sort out somewhere else in the room. Not here. Not in the bed. He’s not allowed here, after all. He needs to get away. He needs the curtains to separate him from Julien for a few minutes. He needs space.

“Of course you don’t.” He doesn’t even bother trying to keep the bitterness out of his voice. “Why would you?”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original author's notes can be found [here.](http://my-nameless-bliss.tumblr.com/post/152658960541)


	5. Blueberry

Max wiggles.

It’s a rather intense, full-body movement. It’s almost enough to shimmy himself right out of Magnus’s lap. He manages to stay put, but his pacifier slips out of his mouth and falls onto the mattress.

And he immediately makes a string of very unhappy noises.

“What was that?” Alec asks, and even through the speaker on his cell phone, Magnus can _hear_ the look on his face. “Did something big happen?”

Magnus rolls his eyes as he gently places the pacifier back between Max’s lips. “No, darling. You’ve been gone for ten minutes. You haven’t missed anything important. You’re not _going_ to miss anything important.”

Alec scoffs. “You say that now. What if he starts talking before I get home?”

“Alexander!” Magnus laughs. “He hasn’t said anything even remotely resembling a word yet. It’s not as though he’s been surreptitiously hiding his powers of speech, just _waiting_ for you to leave the apartment for an afternoon.”

“Okay, but now if he _does_ start talking while I’m gone, you’re gonna feel so guilty about saying that.”

Magnus is still giggling a little as he starts playing with Max’s feet. He’s lounging in bed, propped up against the headboard, with his knees bent so Max can sit comfortably in his lap and use Magnus’s legs as a backrest.

“Fine. If he somehow manages to start talking before you get home, I promise that I will find a way to go back in time so you can hear it.”

“ _Wow_ , you haven’t invented time travel yet? What have you even been doing all these years?” Once again, Magnus can hear Alec’s expression. This time, it’s a dumb little smirk.

Magnus resists the urge to frown, in case Max thinks it’s because of him. “Don’t you have a meeting to be getting to, darling? If you can waste all this time talking to me, it really seems like you don’t need to be there at all.”

“They’re running behind. And believe me, I’m only here because Maia _specifically_ asked me to come. I’m gonna get out of here as soon as physically possible.” He makes a little noise that barely gets picked up by the phone. “Though I suppose it’s almost kinda nice to be back. Sort of. Barely. I haven’t been here in over a month now.”

“It’s been _three weeks_ , Alexander. That’s nowhere near a long time for a new parent to be away from work.” He’s still struggling a little to keep his voice appropriately pleasant for Max’s sake. “Honestly, I had hoped Maryse would be a bit more understanding of your situation, and not start pulling this kind of crap for at least a few more weeks.”

Alec laughs. “Yeah, maybe a _normal_ parent would cut me some slack, but this is Maryse. She won’t shut up about how she had three kids and _never_ needed more than a week to get back to work.” His voice changes a bit, into that sharp, pretentious parody he always uses when he quotes either of his parents. “And she actually _gave birth_ to all of her kids.” He says something under his breath that sounds like a combination of about six different curse words. “By her standards, I should have been back to twelve-hour patrol shifts the day after we got back from Idris.”

“Ahhhhhh Maryse,” Magnus sighs grandly, “charming as ever.”

“To be fair, I’m pretty sure she only forced me to come to this meeting because she somehow got it into her head that I’d bring Max with me.”

Magnus snorts out a little laugh. “Yes, because a nephilim meeting is the _perfect_ place to bring a little baby downworlder.”

“I mean, there’s at least gonna be other downworlders there. But yeah, right now I’m hoping that she’ll be so disappointed that Max isn’t here, she’ll let me go home.”

“Mm, that’d be nice. Get you back here before the separation anxiety sets in.”

“Yeah, it’s a little late for that.” There’s a silly smile in Alec’s voice. “But it shouldn’t be more than an hour, maybe two. It’s not-”

There are some muffled background noises, too distant to be understandable.

And Alec sighs, heavily enough to send a rush of static through the speaker. “Time’s up. Gotta go.”

Magnus picks his phone up off of the mattress. “Alright, darling. You go kick the Clave’s ass.”

Alec laughs. “I will if I have to.” Sounds of movement, footsteps, maybe a door opening? “I’ll be home as soon as I can. Don’t let Max do anything important until I get back!”

“I promise, neither of us are going to do _anything_ of importance until you’re here to witness it. Isn’t that right, little Blueberry?” Magnus waggles Max’s foot, and he gives a few hearty kicks in response.

“Good.”

“Say hi to everyone for me.” Oh. Magnus purses his lips. “Well, say hi to the good ones, anyway. The ones you know I’d want to say hi to.”

Alec laughs again. “Right. I’ll call you as soon as I’m done.”

Magnus shifts against the pillows, trying to upright himself a bit more. “Alright, Max, time to say goodbye.” He holds the phone up by Max’s face. “Say ‘bye, Daddy!’”

And he tickles Max’s stomach. Just a bit. Just enough to make him let out a happy little gurgle around his pacifier. Just enough for Alec to be able to hear it.

“Bye, Max! Be good for Papa while I’m gone.” His voice is getting a little louder, and there’s more noise in the background. Like the general sort of murmur that happens in a crowded room. Alec’s talking over the hubbub. “I love you.”

In the split-second pause which follows, Magnus smiles. Because he knows this pause. And he knows Alec always follows it up with-

“Both of you.”

Magnus gives a quiet hum. He loves that little pause. The tiny bit of time it takes for Alec to remember the specification. ‘Both’. The truly adorable way that Alec still hasn’t adjusted to the idea of wanting to say that to more than one person at the same time. The way that Alec’s still not used to having another person here to love.

“We love you too, angel.”

“Bye, babe.”

Magnus feels the impulse to start an innocent game of ‘no, you hang up first… ’   

But Alec has work to do. Magnus doesn’t want to be an obstruction, particularly since the sooner the meeting starts, the sooner it’ll end. This is the first time Alec’s been away from Max (really away from him, not just passed out in another room when someone comes over to babysit for a few hours). Magnus can’t bear the thought of drawing this afternoon out any further.

So he hangs up. And tosses his phone onto the nearest pillow.

Part of him honestly expects Max to have a complete meltdown the moment the bedroom goes quiet…

He doesn’t. Nothing happens. He just keeps sucking on his pacifier. Keeps wiggling a bit. Keeps kicking lightly against Magnus’s hands as they play with his feet.

His feet.

God, how are his feet so tiny? Magnus still hasn’t gotten over that. His little feet. His little hands. His little fingers and toes. His little ears. Everything’s just so _little_ and Magnus honestly doesn’t know how to deal with it. People aren’t supposed to be this _small_. It’s infuriating.

And he’s over half a year old. Before Magnus met him, he used to be even _smaller_ than this.

Rationally, Magnus knows that he’s only unused to it because he’s literally never spent this much time with an infant before. But still, it’s downright mind-boggling. His tiny blue hands, and his tiny blue feet, and his tiny blue nose-

Magnus can’t fight the sudden, overwhelming urge to boop Max’s tiny blue nose with his finger.

Max’s nose scrunches up (and _goddamn_ is it adorable), and his pacifier falls out again.

But he doesn’t reach for it. And he doesn’t start fussing. So Magnus leaves it be for now. Besides, he’s very distracted by the fact that Max has got hold of one of Magnus’s hands, and he starts aimlessly touching and tugging at his fingers.

And if that gives Magnus an excuse to stare at the ring on his fourth finger, well. No one could fault him for that.

It’s such a _beautiful_ ring, after all.

It’s the only one he’s wearing right now. Lately, he’s been lacking the energy to choose more than one or two pieces of jewelry when he gets dressed. Like he’s been lacking the energy to do his makeup (unless he knows he’s going to see someone who isn’t Alec that day). Like he’s been lacking the energy to do anything to his hair, other than pull it back out of his face. Like he’s been lacking the energy to wear anything other than Alec’s old sweatpants and t-shirts. The _really_ old ones, the ones even Alec refuses to wear anymore.

But Magnus thinks that’s perfectly justified. After all, with the amount of bodily fluids they’ve been getting on their clothes since they brought Max home, why would Magnus want to wear clothes that actually look nice? Alec’s t-shirts are already so stained that you can hardly tell the difference like this.

So Magnus’s baby-related lack of energy has left him in yet another oversized t-shirt. And sweatpants with a sizable hole right in the crotch. Without a trace of makeup. With only one pair of earrings (because they’re shaped like cats, and he needs Chairman Meow to know he still loves him, even if he isn’t getting as much attention as usual), and a simple bracelet, and his ring.

He smiles.

His engagement ring.

It really is lovely. Alec did a wonderful job. Of course, he’d insisted that Magnus actually choose his own ring, but when Magnus had convinced Alec to show him what he would pick… well. Needless to say, Magnus didn’t need to look any further.

And judging by the way Max is giving extra attention to that particular finger, Magnus assumes he must agree with the selection.

“Didn’t Daddy pick out such a _perfect_ ring? It’s so pretty, isn’t it?”

Max makes a few inarticulate sounds, but he seems very focused on something-

Oh.

He closes his fist around one of the charms on Magnus’s bracelet. And tugs. Much harder than one should tug a chain this delicate.

“No no no, sweetheart,” Magnus tries to pull the bracelet free from Max’s fingers as gently as possible. “This isn’t a toy.” He raises an eyebrow. “Although, looking at it, I understand your confusion.” The various dangling charms are shiny and pretty shapes and just loose enough on his wrist to make a nice jangling sound when he moves. “I promise to pay more attention to the baby-friendliness of my jewelry in the future,” he manages to pry a few fingers away, but Max just grabs the bracelet with his other hand as soon as he gets the chance, “if you’ll just let go right now. Please, Blueberry.”

But it’s futile. And by the time Max starts trying to stuff one of the rather prickly sapphire ornaments into his mouth, Magnus has no other choice.

“Hold still a moment, would you? I don’t want to accidentally poof _you_ into my jewelry chest.”

Unsurprisingly, Max doesn’t hold still. At all. But regardless, Magnus manages to magic the bracelet away.

Max’s fists close around empty air.

And he is _not_ happy about it.

He grasps Magnus’s hand again, but this time his fists keep opening and closing, like he’s looking for something else that’s as fun to play with as a bracelet. And he starts making some small, upset noises.

Magnus gropes around the bedsheets, desperately trying to find the pacifier before Max’s little whines can become legitimate crying. Ignoring the way Max’s fist keeps hitting his wrist, ignoring the spark that bursts on his hand-

The spark…

The spark?

Magnus’s heart skips a beat. And then, possibly, skips a few more.

“Max, was that…” he looks down at where Max’s hands are still gripping Magnus’s fingers. “Was that you, or me?”

Max’s crying intensifies, first in pitch, and then in volume.

Magnus barely even registers his own movements as he quickly quiets him with the pacifier.

“Max, sweetheart, was that you? You have to tell me.” Magnus feels his stomach fill up with a strange swarm of butterflies. Some odd species of… paternal butterfly. “Did you just-”

Another spark hits Magnus’s hand.

And he _definitely_ wasn’t the one who made it.

Magnus makes a startled, strangled noise. It almost sounds like an actual _hoot_ of surprise. He sits up straighter, careful to make sure he doesn’t jostle Max too much, but needing to get closer to him. Needing to show his excitement in a physical posture.

“Blueberry!” He has to fight to keep himself from shouting, knowing that Max wouldn’t understand it. But his voice is significantly higher than he intended it to be, and he can tell that there’s a rather ridiculous look on his face. “Was that a little bit of magic? Are you making little sparks?”

But Max just squirms in his lap. Still making a string of whiny sounds, like he’s not completely convinced that he doesn’t want to start crying.

Fuck. How the fuck is Magnus supposed to communicate this to an infant?

But it’s not as though he can just leave this alone. This is the first time. The _first time_ he’s ever…

“Here,” he takes one of Max’s hands - even though Max doesn’t surrender and _let_ his hand be held without putting up a fight - and gently touches his finger to Max’s palm. “Look, watch this.”

Magnus lets out a spark. The softest, subtlest, gentlest little touch of magic he can possibly manage. Just so Max can still see it, and feel it. He lets the heat linger in his fingertip, not enough to seem hot, but enough to be noticeable.

“See? Papa can do that, too.”

Max makes a noise of protest when he feels the spark on his hand, and his wriggling becomes more of a mild flailing. But he doesn’t try to pull his hand away from Magnus.

So… maybe it’d be alright if…

Magnus makes another spark. And this time, he tries to add something to it. A little touch of excitement. He can’t exactly make someone feel a particular _emotion_ like that, but he can at least control the type of energy he lets out. And he makes this spark as happy as possible.

Max squeals, making his pacifier fall out yet again. And-

A spark crackles on the tip of his thumb. Burning bright for only a second before the blue glow fades back into his blue skin.

“Yes!” Magnus nearly bolts upright, scooping Max up under the armpits and lifting him so high it’s like he’s going to just toss him up in the air. “Yes, yesyesyesyes that was _wonderful!_ ” He holds Max to his chest, so he can start _smothering_ his face in kisses. “Look at you, my magical little Blueberry! Making sparks all by yourself!”

It takes him a moment to realize that he can’t keep talking, because he’s laughing. In between kisses, that is. He’s not going to stop until he’s sure he’s kissed every spot on Max’s face.

Max is making all sorts of squealing, shrieking noises. But none of them sound bad, so Magnus doesn’t stop. However, he does pause a bit, once he gets his breath back. “That’s so _good_ , Max!” More kisses. “Already doing magic.” Even more kisses. “I love you so much, little Blueberry.” He tries for a few more kisses-

But it looks as though Max is becoming overwhelmed by the onslaught. He starts batting lightly at Magnus’s face and aimlessly kicking his legs.

“Oh alright, alright.” Magnus concedes. He crosses his legs, getting himself more comfortably situated, so he can lower Max and let him ‘stand’ on the bed. “It’s just so exciting, sweetheart. Doing magic when you’re still so little! Why, _I_ didn’t-”

He stops. It’s like he can feel the words disappear from his throat.

He was going to say that he didn’t do any magic until he was much older than Max.

But… how does he know?

Magnus remembers discovering his magic. He can still remember it so clearly, even after all these centuries. So much of his childhood has become blurred over time. The house where he grew up. The farm. His parents’ faces. It’s all sort of… slipped away from him. Obviously, _certain_ events are still unfortunately clear, but for the most part, the details are gone.

Except his magic. He remembers his magic. He’s always remembered his magic.

He may not remember exactly how old he was when he first started noticing it, but he remembers what it was like. The odd blue glow he could bring to his palms if he stared long enough. The little sparks that would get shocked out of his fingers when he was frightened. The way things seemed to… _move_ around him. Change. Not in a way that was noticeable to anyone else. It was just for him. An odd, indescribable _change_ he could bring to the air, when his feelings got out of control.

And, of course, the more noticeable power.

He still remembers that. Remembers exactly how it looked. How it felt. The flames. Blue. Bright, flickering blue. The color just getting richer as the flames spread. Even the smoke was blue-

He remembers things like that. He knows that he was old enough for memories to form. He was a child. He wasn’t an infant, like Max. He couldn’t do those things when he was a baby.

Or at least, he doesn’t think he could.

But then, he thinks about the little sparks that Max just made. The heat in his fingers.

Really, this may not be the first time that Max has done magic. It’s just the first time that Magnus has _noticed_ it. Obviously Alec hasn’t either, because he would say something. But that doesn’t mean that it’s never happened before. Max is getting close to a year old, after all. Plenty of time. Plenty of opportunities.

And, maybe.

Maybe those little sparks can pass you by, if you aren’t looking for them. Maybe they’ve happened before. Maybe his human parents felt them, just like Magnus had, but they’d thought nothing of it. After all, it seems unlikely that someone who feels the need to abandon their warlock child on an empty doorstep would know enough about magic to recognize it for what it is.

Maybe Max has been showing his magic all along. Magnus wonders how much he could have done, how much his parents missed, or ignored. Magnus wonders…

Magnus wonders how much _he_ could have done. How much his mother missed. How much she ignored.

It’d have been easier, with a child like Magnus. Strange eyes are hardly as obvious of a warning sign as navy blue skin. Max’s parents would have been on alert, ready to find anything unusual about him.

But Magnus’s mother had no idea. Neither of them did.

And Magnus wonders.

How much she saw. How much she felt. How many things tugged at her mind, only to be ignored. Excused. Willed away.

How many sparks were attributed to static from a wool blanket. How many flashes of heat were attributed to a fever. How many items disappeared, or moved, or changed… only for her to assume she’d just misplaced them.

How many signs did she have? How much magic was Magnus doing, before he ever realized it?

Max squirms, clearly unhappy with his current situation.

It’s enough to snap Magnus out of his thoughts.

“Alright, let’s settle down.” He wrinkles his nose. “Well, _I’ll_ settle down, anyway.”

No one in this family is currently on any sort of _decent_ sleep schedule (not even poor Chairman Meow, who hasn’t built up the tolerance to sleep through baby cries), but they still attempt to put Max down for a nap every few hours. Just to see. Just out of sheer optimism. And it’s getting to be about that time.

But the nursery seems _so_ far away right now. Magnus hasn’t slept in- what, twenty hours? And it’s the middle of the day. His body is furious with him. He can’t bring himself to get out of bed.

Well, maybe he can stall for a few minutes.

He scoots down the bed, far enough so he can actually lie down on his back-

And he absolutely does _not_ let out a ridiculous moan of relief, just from the feeling of lying down in his own bed.

With the arrangement of pillows, he’s still propped up enough that he can nestle Max against his chest. It’s certainly a risk, because if Max decides to spit up, it’ll be going right down Magnus’s (or rather, Alec’s) shirt.

But it’s surprisingly comfy, so that’s a risk he’s willing to take.

Besides, it’s not as though Alec will be surprised that another one of his old shirts has been lost in the Baby War.

Oh, wait.

Alec.

“Oh dear.” He presses a kiss to the top of Max’s head. “Let’s hope you can make a few more sparks for Daddy when he gets home. I _really_ don’t want to have to figure out how to go back in time.” In any other situation, Magnus would curse the universe’s timing for actually having Max do something important, right after Magnus specifically _promised_ that he wouldn’t.

But, fuck. It’s not like he could possibly find a way to be anything less than _thrilled_ about this.

He rubs Max’s back. And gives him another kiss, just for good measure. “Daddy is going to be so _proud_ of you when he hears about this, Max. He’s going to be so excited.” He smirks. “Not as excited as I am, but still.”

After a moment, Magnus lets his head tip to the side, so his face is pressed into the pillow. “You’re going to be such a powerful little warlock, I can tell. Already making sparks. And you have me here to help.” He chuckles softly. “It’ll make such a difference. After all, look how I turned out. And I didn’t even _meet_ another warlock til I was a teenager. I learned all of my rudimentary magic from stuffy old Silent Brothers! Just think how much better you’ll have it.”

That-

That stops him, for a moment.

It’s not the first time he’s had the thought, but it feels… sharper now. More poignant. More focused.

He lifts his face up again, so he can kiss Max’s head. “You’re going to have it so much better than me, Blueberry. I promise.”

Max hits his hand lightly against Magnus’s shoulder. He makes a sound that’s promisingly similar to a yawn-

It turns into a gurgle. Then a wet sort-of-cough. The kind that usually means he’s about to spit up.

Magnus sighs. It was such a nice moment.

“Are you sure you can’t wait for Daddy to get home? I dealt with the last one.” He struggles into a sitting position, and magicks up one of their burping rags. “Your timing is not at _all_ fair.”

But Max obviously doesn’t care. And as Magnus just _barely_ misses catching all of Max’s spit up on the rag, he wonders how soon he’ll be able to teach Max to magically clean up messes. Like the one he leaves on Magnus’s shirt.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original author's notes can be found [here](http://my-nameless-bliss.tumblr.com/post/152982719326).


	6. Ragnor

Huesca, Spain

 

Magnus takes another sip of his coffee.

And this time, he’s prepared for it, so he doesn’t make a face. After all, there’s certainly no need for Ragnor to know that this is his first experience with the stuff. And it’s-

Well. There’s an odd sort of appeal. He can imagine drinking it in the morning. As a way of rudely shocking his system into being awake. It tastes somewhat like liquefied ashes, but there’s something that’s almost… human about it. There’s an intrinsic rightness to it, even though its flavor is so potent (and in a way, _awful_ ).

Magnus wonders if this is what blood tastes like to vampires. Deep, and overpowering, and almost too rich to bear, but with that indescribable hint of necessity.

It’s either that, or ashes. It definitely tastes like one of those two things.

Regardless, he keeps his expression neutral. Ragnor wasn’t looking at him when he’d taken his first sip, so he hadn’t seen the shock. The way his mouth twisted up. The slight hint of _outrage_ that a simple drink could surprise him that much.

Ragnor hadn’t seen any of that. Because as far as Ragnor knows, this isn’t Magnus’s first cup of coffee. It’s his dozenth. Hundredth. Millionth. How long has Ragnor known coffee? Magnus hadn’t even heard of it before today. Apparently it’s so popular in Hungary that it’s a downright nonevent to drink it. And Ragnor seems to have brought a small shop’s worth of it with him, since he’s so fond of it. He says it helps him work.

And if that ends up being true, well. Ragnor might find that one of his sacks of coffee beans has ‘disappeared’ after Magnus leaves.

Then again, with how things have been going so far, Ragnor might just give him some if he asks. He’s certainly been hospitable enough so far. After all, it had only taken one brief meeting for Ragnor to invite him over for dinner. He’d said he’s been sorely missing the company of other warlocks during his time in Pressburg, so it’s likely he’s just not being picky. It probably has nothing to do with Magnus himself.

Then again, Magnus has certainly been doing his very best to be as personable as possible. He wants to be appealing.

He almost laughs into his coffee.

He wants Ragnor to like him.

It’s ridiculous, really. He barely knows anything about this man. They’ve known each other for three days. Talked for only a handful of hours.

And for Magnus, almost all of it has been lies.

But he doesn’t really think he can be faulted for that. For lying, to make himself seem better suited to Ragnor’s companionship. To want to make a good impression. After all, Ragnor himself has admitted that it’s taxing to spend too much time without getting to interact with a fellow warlock.

And, well. Magnus has never…

He knows other warlocks. Knows _of_ them, rather. As his business rivals, nothing more. As the long-time, established professionals with strong reputations. As the people he needs to steal customers from if he ever wants to make a living. As competition. Not as acquaintances. Not as-

No. He refuses to use the word ‘friend’. Not only is it completely immature and unnecessary, but it’s also entirely unreasonable. Premature. He’s known Ragnor for three days. And he hasn’t said a damn word of truth to him.

Ragnor is old. Well, older than Magnus, anyway. He’s not entirely sure how _much_ older, but it’s enough to be significant. Magnus can tell. He doesn’t know how he can tell, but he can. There’s something about him - a wisdom, an authority, a tangible _presence_ of age. Magnus doesn’t have any of that.

So, naturally, he’s trying to steal it.

Magnus is good at reading people. He always has been. And he’s already _very_ good at using that to his advantage. Meeting a potential client, speaking to them for a handful of moments, and instantly knowing _exactly_ what he needs to be. What they want him to be. What he needs to do to get their business.

So when he met Ragnor, and saw who Ragnor is, and understood what sort of qualities Ragnor is proud of in himself…

Magnus copied him. With just enough differences to still feel somewhat genuine. Enough to hide the fact that it’s a copy. Enough to still feel like he’s… himself. Less himself than usual, but still. Enough.

And if that’s meant a rather epic amount of lying, so be it. Magnus isn’t willing to risk turning Ragnor off. Right now, _any_ amount of lying seems worth it.

Because this has been so nice.

Talking to another warlock. Knowing there’s someone… else. It’s not just him, anymore. It’s been just him, for so many years. And now, there’s Ragnor.

Goddammit, it’s downright ridiculous. Magnus had felt like he could cry when he’d seen Ragnor use magic to summon up their coffee cups. So easily. Casually. Like there’s nothing extraordinary about doing so. Like it’s…

Normal.

And-

Oh. Fuck.

Ragnor’s been talking this whole time, hasn’t he?

Shit.

Magnus needs to pay attention to him. For many reasons. He can’t afford to lose the thread of the conversation, because-

“…which I thought - at the time - would be a good opportunity to return to Antwerp, just for a brief visit.” Ragnor raises his eyebrows, and somehow manages to make it look dismissive. “Of course, my timing was not as serendipitous as I’d hoped.” His mouth moves, the tiniest twist of his lips. It shouldn’t look like a smile. It’s not a smile. But somehow… it gets the same point across.

But… fuck.

_Fuck._

He’s looking for a response.

And Magnus has nothing. If he’d been fucking _paying attention_ , maybe he could have gotten some context clues. Pretend he knew something, _anything_ about what Rangor is saying. Given the reaction that Ragnor is obviously waiting for.

Ragnor just keeps staring at Magnus’s blank face.

But after a moment, he raises one eyebrow. “Mid-sixteenth century?” he prompts, still expectant. “The riots?”

Magnus snaps back into action. He rolls his eyes, and smiles as he makes an understanding hum into his coffee. “Of course. It all…” he waves a hand, “blurs together, after a while.”

And Ragnor…

Laughs.

Fuck. That can’t be good.

It’s a calm, quiet laugh. It’s not mocking. It’s just genuinely amused. “You’re not quite that old, I take it?”

Fuck. _Shit_.

“No-” Magnus says, too quickly, and he curses himself for losing his composure. “As I said, a mere slip of the memory-”

“It’s alright, Bane,” Ragnor says with that same tone of gentle amusement.

(And, as always, it takes Magnus’s brain a split-second to realize that that’s _him_. It’s been his name for only a few years, and apparently, that’s not enough. He knows that it’s his name, he knows that it’s the right name for him, but that doesn’t change the fact that he’s not used to _hearing_ it yet. Spoken out loud. To him. It _is_ him, but it still feels more like… a label. It’s not part of him yet. He’s still absorbing it. It’s in his brain, but not his being. It’s only a split-second, but that’s still a split-second of confusion. He hopes it goes away soon.)

Ragnor takes a rather generous sip of his coffee, then sets it back down on the saucer in front of him. “Every warlock in existence has lied about their age. It’s what we do.” He huffs a little laugh, like it’s just for himself. “I have a regular client who _still_ thinks I was an adviser to Julius Caesar.”

Magnus feels like his mind is still numb with residual panic, but he still manages to say, “Why would anyone think that’s a _good_ thing to have been?”

And Ragnor just laughs. “I haven’t the foggiest.”

Well, at the very least, he still seems rather… light about it. It’s the first lie of Magnus’s that he’s caught, and he doesn’t seem to care. That’s encouraging, in a strange way. Maybe everything is still fine.

But of course, the universe immediately decides to fuck him over for even thinking that.

Because Ragnor smiles, an odd sort of smile that would look almost mischievous if it were on anyone other than Ragnor Fell. “Well, come on then, Bane.” His face ticks upward, somehow looking like both a challenge, and a secret. “How old are you?”

A cold stab of dread slices through Magnus, from his heart down to his stomach.

He’s not supposed to answer this. He’s never supposed to answer this. It’s not what he does.

He doesn’t do this. He’s _never_ done this. He’s alluded to his ‘age’ to dozens of people, from saying he shared the stage with Shakespeare, to saying he predates the goddamn pyramids of Egypt. He can’t keep track of how many times he’s lied about his age.

He’s never told the truth.

Hell, the only people who know his real age are the Silent Brothers, and technically, it’s not as though he ever really _told_ them. They just knew. He’s never said it out loud, even to them.

He’s never said it out loud. Not since he started speaking this language. Not since he’d been given a new world of people to tell. Not since he was a child. Not since…

“Oh, don’t be like that,” Ragnor says with that same odd touch of playfulness. He’s still smiling. “It’s not as though I’m going to try and discredit you. Hunt down your potential clients to tell them the truth.” He laughs, like he’s amused at the very idea.

But Magnus…

He can’t.

He… can’t.

Can he?

Ragnor’s eyebrows furrow, but he keeps smiling. It’s an odd combination. An odd expression of… confusion? Incredulity?

“Honestly, Bane, just _tell_ me.” His voice isn’t playful anymore. He’s getting serious. It’s not severe, but it’s not a joke anymore. “One warlock to another.” He settles back in his chair, but somehow, it only intensifies his presence. “After all, if you can’t tell me, you’ll never tell anyone.”

That’s-

True.

Magnus supposes, anyway. If he can’t tell another warlock, if he can’t tell this warlock who’s spoken with him, who’s starting to _know_ him - even if it’s in a twisted, dishonest way…

Can he really…

Can he handle knowing something like that? Can Magnus really be the _only_ person who’ll ever know his real age? It seems small enough now, but in a hundred years, five hundred years, five thousand years… could he still survive, being the only bearer of that particular secret?

Maybe it’d be nicer. To not be the only one. To have someone else know. To not have to hold that, all by himself. After all, how much deeper will it cut, with each decade? Each century? How much more will it weigh?

Ragnor’s still looking at him. Still not severe. But still expectant.

It’s quiet in here. There’s a fire, but it’s on the other side of the room. It’s just a distant crackle. The wind outside the door. The sound of Magnus’s finger, tracing across the table, back and forth, over and over.

“Nineteen.”

And it’s still quiet. Nothing changes. Still just the fire, and the wind, and the nervous trail of his fingertip.

And Ragnor.

But he’s not smiling anymore.

“I’m being _serious_ , Bane. You’re not as funny as you think you are.”

Magnus sets his jaw. “It’s true.”

“If you don’t want to tell me, then don’t.”

“I am nineteen years old,” Magnus repeats. Quiet, but firm. Steady.

Ragnor… looks at him. His face is intent, but beyond that, unreadable. “I don’t understand.”

And that-

Well, that’s apparently enough to break through the severity of the moment, because Magnus scoffs. And regardless of everything he’s done the past three days, regardless of everything he’s seen of Ragnor, and how careful Magnus has been, and how much he’s been controlling himself, keeping himself palatable, he snaps.

“Well you see, when a woman loves a man very much, sometimes a demon breaks into her room in the middle of the night, and-”

“Magnus.”

He’s- huh. Ragnor’s never called him Magnus before. Always just ‘Bane’.

It’s enough to make Magnus go quiet.

Ragnor is still just _staring_ at him. With that same small, furrowed expression. And he doesn’t break the silence for what feels like it could be several minutes. “Nineteen?”

Magnus fights the urge to roll his eyes. Honestly, this isn’t difficult. “And three months, if you really want to get bogged down in the details.”

Ragnor’s gaze doesn’t leave Magnus, but it starts moving. Instead of just staring at his face, he starts looking him over. Magnus isn’t quite sure what he thinks he can see, since he’s just… sitting at this table. But Ragnor looks as focused as ever. Like he’s looking for something.

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“I don’t know what you expect me to say,” Magnus snaps again. Fuck, didn’t Ragnor want to know Magnus’s real age? Why did he ask if was going to blatantly reject the answer? “It’s the truth.”

“You’re a… a child,” Ragnor says quietly, like he’s talking to himself. “I- _nineteen_ , is that- Are you even physically mature yet?”

Magnus straightens in his chair. Pulls himself up as far as he can. Because he’s not sure what’s happening, but it feels like he’s being… insulted. But he answers honestly. After all, what does he have to lose at this point? It looks like his connection with Ragnor is in the process of being thoroughly severed. “I don’t know. How can you tell?”

Apparently his question is enough of an answer, because Ragnor’s eyes go a bit wide. And he puts a hand to his mouth - not in an sign of shock, but… pensiveness? Magnus can practically _see_ how hard he’s thinking.

“You-” Ragnor’s fingers curl down to his chin. “You… work. On your own. You have clients. People know you, you’ve… I’d heard of you, before we met.”

Magnus lifts his chin. “Yes?” He can’t quite keep the uncertainty out of his voice.

Well, at the very least, now he knows that he’s never going to tell anyone his real age again. Ever. Serves him right. Because now he’s being, what, scolded for it? It feels like he’s being scolded. Has he broken some rule he didn’t know about? Is he not allowed to be doing this? Is there some sort of age limit to selling his services, and no one felt like telling him?

Fuck. He’s never going to tell anyone anything about himself. He’s done with that. And he’s definitely not going to spend anymore time with other warlocks. It’s clearly not worth it.

Hm. And for a while there, he’d been so hopeful.

But now there’s-

“Remarkable.”

Magnus blinks.

Did Ragnor… switch tangents, while Magnus wasn’t listening? Because that couldn’t have been…

Ragnor leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. It’s the most casual posture Magnus has seen from him.

“I’ve never… hm.” His expression tightens again, but it doesn’t necessarily look like he’s upset. Just… engaged. Focused. “I’ve _never_ known a warlock who could get work, by themselves, so young. Before reaching physical maturity, even. Maybe-” he tilts his head, and makes a gesture with his hand that conveys the same thing as a shrug. “There are young warlocks who work with someone else; a sort of… apprenticeship situation. But making a career, by yourself, at nineteen.” He shakes his head. “It’s extraordinary.”

Magnus…

Doesn’t know what to do with that. He’s never-

No one has ever said… something like that. He’s never heard someone talk about his magic like it’s…

Like it’s a good thing. Like it’s impressive.

Like he’s impressive.

Magnus isn’t even sure what the fuck is happening to his face right now, but it must not be noticeable, because Ragnor doesn’t seem deterred. “Well, there must at least be someone who’s been teaching you?”

Magnus is so wrong-footed that he can barely get his voice to work. “The Silent Brothers.”

“ _Silent Brothers?_ ” Ragnor practically shouts, with loud, disbelieving laughter. “What the fuck could they _possibly_ teach a warlock about magic?”

Magnus swallows. “Enough, apparently.”

Ragnor’s laughter dies down. But he’s still smiling, a little. It’s not much, but it’s enough to make him look… something. Amused, maybe. “You’re rather exceptional, aren’t you, Bane?”

And Magnus doesn’t know what to do with that either. He doesn’t know what to do with any of this. He just knows that the knot of fear in his stomach has been slowly untwisting. And there’s something else there now. Something almost… warm.

Something nice.

Ragnor waves his hand dismissively, and finally gives his attention back to his cup of coffee. “Well, best not get into that. Can’t have you getting accustomed to outlandish praise.” He raises an eyebrow. “We warlocks aren’t exactly known for our _modest_ egos, after all.”

And he smirks, with that same look in his eye. The one that’s almost conspiratorial. The one that suggests that he and Magnus are in on something together. An inside joke, that Magnus doesn’t remember being brought into.

“Right,” Magnus says after a long pause. Because he feels like he’s supposed to say something. And he can’t think of any other words.

He picks up his coffee, because he can’t think of anything else to do. He feels oddly… numb. Like he’s not sure where he is. What he’s doing. He takes a sip-

And just barely keeps himself from spitting it right back out.

Alright. Coffee does _not_ taste good once it’s cooled off. Good to know.

He lets out a little pulse through his fingertips, sending heat through the cup and into the coffee. It’s not an exact science, but he figures it’s probably enough when he sees steam rise up from the inky liquid.

Hm. Ink. That’s something else it tastes like. Blood, ashes, and ink.

He takes a sip, making sure - yes. That’s better. It stings his lips a bit, but it’s worth it. He looks up, and-

Ragnor is looking at him. With the same wry, knowing smile.

Because, well. He knows. He saw what Magnus just did, and he _knows_ what Magnus just did. He knows how to do it, too. Hell, he probably did it himself when he picked up his own cup a minute ago. He knows what that is. He knows what it’s like.

He knows.

And that’s so new. To have someone here, someone talking to him, who knows _exactly_ what this is. Who can heat up coffee, exactly like Magnus can. Who knows how it feels, the rush of power, excitement. Who knows what it’s like to feel exhausted from using too much, even if he’s been sitting still the whole time. Who knows magic.

Who knows him.

Magnus smiles, and takes another sip of coffee.

Yes. It’s rather nice.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original author's notes can be found [here.](http://my-nameless-bliss.tumblr.com/post/153221500226)


	7. Luke

Brooklyn - 1995

 

Magnus drops a cherry into his glass. “So. Are you planning on telling me why you’re here, or are you hoping to start a game of twenty questions?” He picks up the glass and gives it a little swirl. “And does that count as one of my questions?”

There’s no response.

Magnus rolls his eyes as he takes his first sip. He realizes it’s rather unprofessional to have a drink while he’s on the job, but in his defense, he’d started making it before the buzzer rang. He wasn’t going to waste a perfectly good glass of bourbon just because someone stopped by without making an appointment first.

“If you’re going to sit there in silence all night, you should know that I charge by the hour.”

He doesn’t, but that’s hardly important. He could if he wanted to.

Magnus finally turns away from the bar, drink in hand, patience already starting to wear thin.

Lucian still hasn’t moved. He’s still sitting on the couch. Legs spread wide. Hunched over himself. Elbows on his knees. One hand hanging limp, the other running restlessly across his face. He looks…

God. He looks somehow even _more_ pathetic than he had when Magnus first let him in. His eyes look sunken and bloodshot, like he might not have slept in days. Possibly weeks. His clothes have just about every problem that clothing can have: torn, dirty, ill-fitting, and horrifically unfashionable. And it’s been pouring rain non-stop, all evening, which is just another piece of terrible luck for him, because he’s soaked to the bone. It hasn’t exactly been a warm spring, either. Magnus doesn’t understand how he isn’t shivering right out of his skin.

And if all of _that_ weren’t bad enough, there’s also the rather disgusting wound on his right forearm. His jacket is conveniently torn in just the right spot to expose the mass of pus and crusted blood that looks like it’s been festering for at least a day or two.

Pathetic. That’s really the only word there is for him.

After a moment, Lucian opens his mouth. And closes it again. He takes a deep breath, and it sounds unsteady. “I… didn’t think this far ahead.” He makes a sound that might have been intended to be a laugh, but sounds more like a whimper of pain. “I wasn’t sure you’d even let me in.”

Magnus tilts his head. “Understandable. Six months ago, I wouldn’t have. But considering your recent situation, it seemed only fair.”

Lucian closes his eyes. His hand is pressed up against his mouth. “‘Situation’,” he repeats quietly, muffled by his fingers.

There’s something… bad. About him. Well, maybe not ‘bad’, but definitely not good. Magnus wouldn’t go so far as to say he seems unhinged, but it’s enough to keep Magnus on edge. Alert. Whatever’s happening right now (and Magnus is honestly unsure of what that even is), it’s delicate.

Lucian doesn’t say anything else.

So whatever this encounter is, it sure as fuck isn’t going anywhere.

Magnus settles in to one of the armchairs across from the couch. They’re facing each other, but there’s a rather sturdy coffee table separating them. Magnus thinks that’s probably best, for now.

“I have to say, I’m surprised you came to see me. Of all people.” He takes another sip of his drink.

Lucian glances up. But only for a moment. Then his gaze fixes right back on the rug under his disgustingly muddy boots (Magnus is seriously considering adding a cleaning fee to his invoice). “Aren’t people supposed to come to you? High Warlock, and all.”

Magnus sits up a little straighter. It’s not _quite_ enough to be literally preening at the title, but he’s pretty obviously pleased to hear it. After all, it’s only been two months. The novelty has yet to wear off. Magnus rather suspects that the novelty won’t wear off for a _long_ time.

It just has such a nice ring to it. Magnus Bane: High Warlock of Brooklyn.

Hm.

That’d look rather nice on a business card. He’ll have to add that to his to-do list.

But now he’s letting himself get distracted.

“While I don’t usually tell my clients this, there _are_ other High Warlocks fairly close by.” He swirls his drink again. “But you chose to come here. To the one warlock with whom you have an… unpleasant history.”

Lucian’s head ticks a bit to one side. Like he wants to look away, even though he’s already looking away in the first place. Like he’s-

Ah.

“Unless, of course, you simply don’t know any other warlocks. I suppose you probably don’t get the downworld yellow pages.”

Lucian doesn’t say anything.

And Magnus laughs. Quietly. Controlled. “Oh, god. Am I honestly the only warlock whose _name_ you actually know?” He crosses one leg over the other. “I suppose it’s not really the Circle’s style to ask for anyone’s name before you kill them.”

“I’m _not_ -” Lucian grits out suddenly, looking like he might lurch off the sofa. But he restrains himself quickly, and goes back to rubbing absently at his jaw. “I’m not… with the Circle. Anymore.”

“So I’ve heard.” Magnus takes another drink.

Lucian tenses a little, like he might be surprised that this particular bit of gossip has been spreading so well over the past few months. But he doesn’t look up. His head his hanging so low that Magnus is genuinely worried it might give up and fall right off of his neck.

“That’s why I’m here,” he says, so quietly that Magnus almost can’t make it out.

“Really?” Magnus furrows his eyebrows. “I assumed you were here for your arm.”

Lucian glances up again, and for some reason, he looks just as confused as Magnus feels. “What?”

Magnus nods toward his injury. “The soon-to-be staph infection that’s currently oozing out of your sleeve. You’re not here to have me heal that before the whole damn arm falls off?”

It takes a moment. Lucian blinks. As if he genuinely can’t tell what Magnus is talking about. Then it must fall into place, because he looks down at his arm. And scoffs. “Thought I didn’t have to worry about this kind of thing anymore. Isn’t the…” his mouth moves a bit, and there’s a look on his face like he’s swallowing something bitter, “the _healing_ supposed to take care of it for me?”

Magnus breathes in slowly, willing himself to sigh it out as calmly as possible. “Werewolves’ advanced healing means that your actual _injury_ will heal faster. It doesn’t clean the damn gunk out of your wounds for you. You still have to put _mild_ effort into your own well-being. A baby wipe and a bandage go a long way.”

Lucian isn’t listening. His head is hanging again, and he’s slowly running both his hands across the back of his neck. Again. And again. Scratching at his skull. Clawing.

It’s not exactly a comforting image.

“Alright, then.” Magnus uncrosses his legs and leans forward to set his glass on the coffee table. “Why are you here?”

Lucian’s hands stop moving. Resting on the back of his bowed head.

He takes a few deep breaths, preparing himself.

“I want you to fix me.”

Magnus raises an eyebrow. “Yes, I think healing your arm would accomplish that quite nicely-”

“No,” Lucian interrupts firmly. He still doesn’t look up. “I want… F-fix _me_.” He takes another breath, and it makes his shoulders tremble. “Turn me back.”

Magnus’s stomach drops. “What?”

“Turn me back,” he repeats, and his voice breaks on the words. “Turn me back, please, I-” he finally looks up. His eyes are wide. And his face is wet. “Please. Magnus, _please_ , you need to turn me back, you need- I can’t. Please, Magnus, I _can’t_ -”

Well, fuck.

Magnus’s bitterness (however justified it may be) fades into the background. He gets up, ignoring his better judgement, and sits down next to Lucian. After a moment of hesitation, he puts a hand on Lucian’s back-

And, _fuck_ , he’s shaking so hard it makes Magnus’s whole arm shake with him.

Lucian is still muttering, babbling under his breath. He’s holding his face in his hands, so Magnus can’t quite tell what he’s saying, but the basic idea is fairly obvious.

Magnus rubs his hand between Lucian’s shoulder blades. The thick, drenched material of his torn jacket is absolutely freezing. So Magnus sends him a little wave of warmth, hoping to lessen at least _some_ of his misery.

Somehow, Magnus thinks Lucian already knows the answer to this particular request. It’s not like he’d be sobbing on a warlock’s couch if he actually had any _hope_ about his chances. But, nonetheless, Magnus figures it’s probably best to make sure. “It doesn’t work like that, sweetheart,” he says as gently as possible. “If it did, believe me, I’d know.” He adds a bit more heat to his fingers. Tries to get some of the water in Lucian’s clothes to evaporate without making too much of a fuss.

And, not having any better ideas (or at least not having the energy to come up with any better ideas, what with all that bitterness that’s still not _entirely_ forgotten), he goes for levity. “You’re hardly the first person to ask me for this. I’ve had to turn away many people. People with much better reasons than yours, too. A werewolf who was deathly allergic to dogs. Jehovah’s Witness vampires. _Real_ problems. You’re just upset that you got kicked out of Genocide Club.”

Ah-

Alright.

That was possibly a _bit_ too harsh. It’s already hard enough for Magnus to see a cute boy weeping all over his furniture (though it’s somewhat difficult to attach the word ‘boy’ to someone this fucking _tall_ , regardless of his youth), he doesn’t need to kick him while he’s already very much down.

But Lucian doesn’t seem to react to the jab. He’s clearly focused on getting himself under control. His breathing is forced and uneven, and he’s wiping at his face, and he’s shifting against Magnus’s touch like he’s not sure if he wants to run away or move closer.

And after a minute or two of strained silence, he clears his throat. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

Well, that’s understandable. Even though he knows Lucian isn’t the first nephilim to become a downworlder, Magnus has never been acquainted with anyone else in this situation. And it’s not hard to imagine that the experience is somewhat less than pleasant. Being cast out by the shadowhunters is inevitable. Under different circumstances, the downworlders would surely be supportive. But given Lucian’s activities in the Circle, Magnus wouldn’t be surprised if he hasn’t exactly found a welcoming community. The New York werewolves in particular have a _very_ good reason to want nothing to do with a former Circle member.

Hell, given the rather unfortunate circumstances of Magnus’s previous encounter with Lucian, he still thinks he has more than enough reason to kick him right back onto the street.

And he would. He would in a heartbeat.

If it weren’t for his goddamn inability to handle seeing a cute boy cry.

“Alright. Come on, then.” Magnus gently nudges Lucian’s shoulder. “Jacket off.”

Lucian snuffles a bit. “What?”

“If you’re already here, it’d be completely illogical for me _not_ to heal your arm, wouldn’t it?” Magnus nudges him again. “Off.”

Lucian looks confused. “I can’t pay you.”

Magnus scoffs. “Yes, believe it or not, I managed to guess that someone who can’t afford a damn bandaid can’t afford the services of a High Warlock.” He gets up, moving to Lucian’s other side to get closer to his injury. But there’s not a comfortable amount of room on the couch, so he perches himself on the arm instead.

“So why would you help me?”

“Because eventually, you’ll be back on your feet.” Magnus smiles, but makes sure it looks more threatening than comforting. “And when you can afford to pay me, you _will_ pay me.”

Lucian looks at him. Silently. For much longer than he should.

And then he shrugs off his jacket. It’s not exactly graceful, what with how difficult it is to shimmy the torn sleeve over his wound without irritating it. He winces a few times before he gets the jacket off and tossed over the back of the couch.

Well, at least the injury isn’t any more extensive now that it’s exposed. It’s still fairly gruesome, and completely hideous, but it’s manageable. Healing has never been Magnus’s specialty, but he figures he can at least get the infection under control so it doesn’t… turn gangrenous… or whatever it is that infections do. Once the damage is reversed, Lucian’s body should be able to take care of the rest.

“How could you tell?” Lucian asks abruptly, as though they’ve been in conversation this whole time.

“Tell what?”

Lucian is looking down at his boots again. “What… happened. To me. I didn’t say it. How did you tell?”

Magnus frowns as he summons up the first aid kit from the bathroom. “I didn’t _tell_ anything. I already knew. This is fairly interesting gossip. Half a year is more than enough time for something like this to get around.” He glances down-

His hands are still empty.

Dammit.

The first aid kit _isn’t_ in the bathroom. Where’d he leave it? Linen closet… under the chair in the library… on the nightstand in the bedroom… the junk drawer in the kitchen-

Ah.

It lands softly in his hands.

Excellent.

Lucian shakes his head. He’s still not looking at Magnus. “You couldn’t… sense it?” His jaw tenses, and his voice gets unnecessarily sarcastic. “I don’t smell like dog?”

Magnus clenches the first aid kit a little tighter, fighting the urge to smack Lucian upside his big, dumb head. “Do I smell like _magic?_ ” he retorts with an equal amount of snark.

Lucian glances up out of the corner of his eye. “You smell like sandalwood.”

“And _you_ smell like someone lit a bonfire in a sewer.”

Lucian doesn’t look too thrilled at the assessment, but he doesn’t attempt to deny it either.

Judging by the overall state of him, Magnus is pretty sure it’s been over a week since he came in contact with a shower. Something about the look of his clothes and the overall amount of grime and the particular stench seems to have the unmistakable stamp of a few too many nights spent on the street.

Magnus pats his knee.

Lucian gets the idea, though he seems more than a little uncomfortable as he rests his injured arm on Magnus’s leg.

Magnus attempts to mask the awkwardness of the situation - or at least distract Lucian from it - as he starts examining the wound a little better. “There are some people who can recognize a werewolf on sight. I’ve never been one of them.” He smirks to himself. “I once dated a werewolf for six months before I even realized he wasn’t a mundane.”

Lucian frowns up at him, the judgement plain on his face.

And Magnus gets to guess what he’s being judged for. His lack of perceptiveness (which had been his _intention_ , to lighten the mood), the fact that he was with a werewolf, or the fact that he was with a man.

Pesky nephilim, always making it so hard for Magnus to tell why they hate him at any given moment.

But Lucian’s expression changes quickly. It falls. He looks… thoughtful. Almost, nervous?

“How long did you stay with him? After you found out… what he was?”

Oh.

So that’s what it is.

Magnus fights off a smile. “Thirty-two years.” He waits a moment, enough to let that sink in. “Not everyone finds the idea of being with a werewolf as repulsive as you do.”

Lucian looks down again. His face is constricting. He’s taking that in. Trying to process it. Trying to reconcile it with his own ideas.

Magnus wonders who he’s thinking about. The person - nephilim, no doubt - who’s making him afraid. The person he must assume will be just as repulsed by him as he is by himself.

But he’s pulled quite suddenly out of his thoughts when he sees the blue glow gathering in Magnus’s fingers. And he jerks his arm in toward his chest, like a reflex.

Magnus rolls his eyes as spectacularly as possible. “For fuck’s sake. What, do you think my magic is going to somehow turn you into _more_ of a downworlder? The damage is done, puppy. Now give me your goddamn arm.”

Lucian blinks a few times, like his brain is trying to catch up with his body. But he at least has the decency to look somewhat apologetic as he rests his arm on Magnus’s leg again. And while he looks distinctly fascinated as he watches the blue light sink into his arm, he doesn’t flinch away.

Magnus purses his lips. God, Catarina would already be done by now. There wouldn’t even be a scar left. But he’s just sort of… hoping for the best. Playing it by ear. Trying to isolate the actual infection and… bring it forward. Pull it out. He wants to say that it’s not an exact science, but he has a couple of degrees in biology that would beg to differ.

It takes him a moment to realize that Lucian is so tense he’s practically vibrating off the cushions.

Magnus sighs out through his nose. “I’m surprised you stayed in New York,” he muses, as conversationally as possible, just for a new subject.

“Been a lot of places,” Lucian says quietly, like he’s barely paying attention. He’s still watching Magnus’s hand over his arm with intense focus.

“Where are you staying?”

That’s enough to make Lucian’s gaze shift. He gives Magnus a sharp, pointed look. But it only lasts a moment.

“Ah.” Magnus supposes that should have been rather obvious. Lucian certainly doesn’t look like he’s been spending any time in a half-decent home. “That’s what packs are for, you know. Support. Helping you… adjust to everything.”

Lucian laughs, rather bitterly. “Yeah, ‘cause they’re all lining up to take _me_ in.”

Magnus tilts his head. “I suppose they might not be thrilled by the idea. After all, the last time they saw you, you were torturing one of their children.”

“That wasn’t me!” Lucian snaps, with a sudden, desperate agony. “I didn’t know about that. You saw, you _know_ I didn’t know. I tried to stop him, I-”

“Yes, I know,” Magnus cuts him off. “But that distinction might not be quite enough for them.”

The first aid kit is still in his lap, and he fishes around for a minute with his free hand until he finds an antiseptic wipe. It won’t be enough to thoroughly clean a wound this… crusty. But it’s something. He figures he can at least get rid of some of the dried blood, now that he’s magicked away most of the pus.

Lucian winces slightly at the first touch, but he relaxes fairly quickly. “You think I deserve this, then? All of… this. Because of what I did?”

“No, because this isn’t a goddamn _punishment!_ ”

Magnus closes his eyes. Clenches his teeth. Takes a deep breath through his nose.

Shouting isn’t going to help anyone.

He’s just a kid, after all. A kid who was recently hellbent on the annihilation of all downworlders, sure. But still, just a kid. And this transition is never easy, even for people who _weren’t_ raised to think of downworlders as subhuman creatures.

Magnus clears his throat. Focuses on speaking _calmly_ this time. And goes back to carefully wiping down the wound. “Like it or not, this is your life now. You don’t have a choice. You just have to suck it up and deal with it.”

Lucian is looking at the floor again. And he’s chewing his lower lip. He opens his mouth like he’s going to speak. Closes it. Does it a few more times.

And, finally, he swallows. “He told me I should kill myself.”

Magnus pauses, but only for a second. “What a charming young man.” Magnus isn’t entirely sure how to have someone intentionally turned into a werewolf, but he was still suspicious that this was somehow Valentine’s doing. It’s not really surprising to hear that suspicion confirmed. “To be quite frank, before I heard what happened, I assumed he would kill you himself.”

“Guess he thought this would be worse.”

Magnus glances up at him. “And is it?”

Lucian presses his lips together. But he doesn’t answer. And it doesn’t look like he’s going to.

So Magnus doesn’t press him. He just keeps cleaning off the dried blood and caked dirt. And slowly, the clear outline of the gash starts to take shape.

Claw marks. Two, running side-by-side in uneven lines, and a faint scratch next to them. Two claws scraping through his flesh, and a third glancing off the side.

Honestly, Magnus doesn’t feel like asking follow-up questions. Whatever this was, it’s Lucian’s business. He doesn’t need to know.

And besides, he’s done about as much as he can do. It’s not exactly _clean_ , but the infection is gone. It’s manageable now. No matter how little interest Lucian has in taking care of himself right now, he’ll still be able to take care of this.

And…

Magnus leans back a bit. Looks him over. His wet clothes. His bloodshot eyes. His shaking hands.

And he sighs.

Of course. He shouldn’t be surprised. He should have known the moment he opened the damn door. This was rather inevitable, wasn’t it?

“Alright,” Magnus sighs again, trying not to sound _too_ defeated. “Go take a shower.” He nods toward the bathroom.

Lucian frowns at him (Magnus is getting rather used to the expression). “What?”

“You heard me.” This time, to make it extra clear, Magnus points. “Shower.”

“Why?”

Magnus rolls his eyes. “Because you smell absolutely disgusting. And I’m not going to have you stink up my guest room.”

Lucian shifts a little. Takes his arm away from Magnus’s leg. Scoots back on the couch. Keeps his distance. “What do you mean?”

“Where were you _planning_ on sleeping tonight?” Magnus challenges.

And, as expected, Lucian doesn’t answer.

“Just as I thought.” Magnus flicks his wrist, and he feels the dirty wipe land in dumpster outside. And he gets up, leaving the first aid kit on the arm of the couch. “Get a move on. Or I’ll start charging you for every minute you keep this godawful stench in my apartment.” He thinks for a moment. “I’ll have to find you some clothes, too. These obviously need to be burned immediately.”

Lucian stands up, almost mechanically. Like he’s just copying Magnus’s movement, not actually making the decision himself. “I don’t…” he swallows. His voice is pitifully small. “Why?”

Magnus almost wants to laugh. But he knows it wouldn’t make sense, so he contains himself to a put-upon sigh instead. “Over the years, through no will of my own, I have become unfortunately accustomed to taking care of baby downworlders.” He shakes his head. “Honestly, I don’t know how you all manage to _find_ me. I must have accidentally put out some sort of homing beacon for distress.”

Lucian doesn’t move. He’s just staring at him. Eyes a little wide. Hands still shaking.

It only takes a few moments for Magnus to lose his patience. He snaps, and the light in the guest bathroom flicks on. “Go on.”

Lucian turns. Takes a few steps. His movements are still unthinking. He looks lost.

He barely makes it a few feet away from the couch before he stops. “Magnus.” He turns back. “Thank you.”

Magnus takes a breath. He can’t quite manage a smile, but he gives his best effort. “You’re welcome, Lucian.”

“Luke.”

After a moment, Magnus nods. “Alright. Luke.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original author's notes can be found [here.](http://my-nameless-bliss.tumblr.com/post/153921729686)


	8. Brother Pelagius

Madrid, Spain

 

The room changes. It gets… colder, somehow. Not in a way that can really be _felt,_ but it’s still there. Coldness. More of a thought than a temperature.

_“Magnus.”_

He doesn’t look up.

He knows that means him. He knows that’s meant to be him.

But he doesn’t think he likes it.

It’s better than ‘boy’, at least. That’s what they called him before. What they’d called him for the first month or so. He supposes they didn’t have much choice. When they’d asked him his name, he didn’t answer. He never answered.

And now, they’ve picked their own name for him.

Magnus.

His nose scrunches up.

The Silent Brother doesn’t seem to care that Magnus didn’t respond, because he sort of… floats over. Magnus isn’t sure if they walk. With all of these robes, he’s never been able to check if they even have feet. They certainly don’t make footstep sounds.

It’s not scary to see them move anymore. But it’s still…

Well. Maybe it’s a _little_ scary.

Magnus doesn’t glance up until the Silent Brother is right in front of him. He’s been sitting on the floor, at the foot of the bed, with his knees tucked up to his chest, his arms wrapped around his legs, and his chin tucked between his knees. He’s been sitting here all day. There’s no clock in this room, but he thinks it’s probably been a few hours now.

He’s not sure if looking up counts as moving. It’s just moving his eyes.

But it’s the first time he’s moved all day.

The Silent Brother is just… standing there. A few feet away from Magnus. Looking at him.

Looking at him?

Face pointed in his direction, anyway. It's not like Magnus can really tell.

He isn’t sure which one this is. There are a lot of them here. He knows the list of names, but he doesn’t know which is which. They all look the same. The same frightening robes. The same frightening faces. Some of them have different frightening marks on their skin, but that’s it.

Magnus doesn’t know what it is that makes people look different from one another. He’s never had to think about it before.

But whatever it is, Silent Brothers don’t have it. So he doesn’t know who-

Pelagius.

This one is Brother Pelagius.

Magnus… knows it.

And he hates that. He _hates_ it, because he didn’t know it before, and now he doesn’t know if he just remembered it, or if Brother Pelagius told him. If he _put_ it in Magnus’s head. He can’t tell the difference anymore. He doesn’t know when he thinks something because he’s thinking it, or when he thinks something because someone else is _telling_ him to think it.

He grits his teeth. And looks back down at the floor.

Nothing happens for a few moments.

Magnus digs his chin a little further between his knees. Buries his face. Tries to squish himself up. Squish and squish and keep squishing until he’s small enough to… blow away. Like dust.

Brother Pelagius moves.

Magnus doesn’t look up, but he can still see it. Barely. It looks blurry. Far away.

Brother Pelagius shifts, not actually going anywhere, but moving downward…

Kneeling.

He kneels on the floor. Right in front of Magnus.

And _that_ makes Magnus look up again.

Because it’s… wrong. Somehow. Magnus has never been told that Silent Brothers aren’t supposed to do this, but it _looks_ like it. It looks strange. It looks like it’s not normal. It looks too small. Silent Brothers are tall. They loom. They float. They might not have feet. They’re stuffy and formal and scary and _strange._

So they’re not supposed to kneel on the cold floor and slouch down and look _small_ like this.

It’s enough to make Magnus _actually_ look up. Lift up his face and everything-

But that reminds him of how much his nose has been running. His whole face feels… sore. Dry. Like it’s going to crack. He sniffs, and tilts his head to wipe his nose on his sleeve.

_“Here.”_

Magnus furrows his eyebrows. He hates hearing that voice in his head. Their voices aren’t any more different than their faces. It’s like one unified Silent Brother voice.

And since it’s in his head, Magnus doesn’t know if he’s really _hearing_ it, or if he’s making it up. If he’s the one who’s deciding that’s what it sounds like. If his own head is making him think up this voice that he doesn’t like hearing.

He doesn’t even know how they understand each other. Magnus doesn’t understand Spanish. If they can make him hear them in his thoughts, it makes sense that Magnus would think in his own language. But they still understand him when he answers out loud. He doesn’t know how that works.

But he looks anyway.

Brother Pelagius is reaching into a pocket in his robe. And he takes out a handkerchief (at least, Magnus thinks it’s a handkerchief. It’s the right shape and size, but it looks like it’s just the exact same fabric as their robes).

It takes a moment…

But when Magnus feels snot drip all the way down to his lips no matter how hard he tries to sniff it away, he holds out his hand.

Brother Pelagius doesn’t move forward. He’s holding the handkerchief right under his chin. He’s not offering it at all.

_“Take it.”_

Magnus frowns. He doesn’t want to get up. He doesn’t want to unfurl from the little ball he’s been in all day. Even if he stretched out his arm as far as he could, he wouldn’t be able to reach. Brother Pelagius is too far away. To get it without moving, he’d have to-

“No,” Magnus says firmly. As firmly as he can. He immediately recoils his hand, wedging it between his back and the leg of the bed, just to be safe.

He doesn’t do that anymore.

He’s not going to do that anymore.

He’s never going to do that again.

He presses his face to his knees again. Sniffling furiously. Eyes squeezed shut.

_“Why not?”_

Magnus bites his lower lip. Bites it until it hurts. Hurts bad. Because if he’s going to have tears in his eyes, it’s better for it to be because his lip is bleeding.

“It’s bad,” he mumbles, as soon as his throat feels like it’ll work.

_“How do you know that?”_

Magnus didn’t think his face could fall any further, but apparently it can. “They told me.”

For once, he’s grateful that he doesn’t have to specify. He doesn’t have to say who he means. Brother Pelagius already knows exactly who he means. Magnus doesn’t have to say the words ‘my parents’.

He doesn’t think he could, even if he tried.

He wonders how much they all know, without Magnus having told them. If they’ve actually known his real name all along, and just haven’t used it because Magnus didn’t say it out loud. If they know where he’s from. If they know that it was his birthday two weeks ago. If they know that he’s eleven now. If they know what happened before he was brought here. If they know what he did-

He bites his lip again, in a new spot this time.

_“And how did they know?”_

Magnus looks up. He already can’t remember what they were talking about. Well, not _talking._ “What?” He glances up.

And he doesn’t know why. It’s not like Brother Pelagius’s expression has changed at all. It’s not like looking at him actually _means_ anything.

_“How did they know it was bad?”_

Magnus opens his mouth…

And closes it.

He can still hear all of it in his head. Not like how he hears the Silent Brothers. This is like memories, but sharper. More real. He can hear the prayers, the scriptures, the ones that got repeated, the ones he was told to repeat, the ones he was made to repeat, he can hear each and every word like they’re actually being said right next to him.

And none of those words are ‘because’.

There’s no why. He knows all of it. He heard everything they’d said. He remembers all of it.

They’d told him the answer. But they’d never told him the explanation for it.

But there… was. Of course there was.

There must have been.

Otherwise they wouldn’t have… been like that. There’d have been no reason for any of it. None of it ever would have happened. Magnus wouldn’t have-

Oh.

His nails dig a bit into his leg.

“It hurts people.”

And he still doesn’t know how badly. He’d left before… He’d started running as soon as he could. He could see the flames. He could tell they were from him. He could _feel_ them coming from him. But he didn’t know how. He didn't know how to stop them. And he didn’t know what he’d done. How bad it was.

He still doesn’t know. He has no idea.

Magnus might have _killed…_

And he doesn’t even know.

_“Were they hurting you first?”_

Magnus swallows. And squeezes his eyes shut. And presses his face harder against his knees. And bites his lip again.

None of it helps. He can actually feel the inside of his _throat_ start trembling.

“Th-that… d-d-doesn’t matter.”

_“It matters. Your magic has-”_

“It’s _not_ magic!” Magnus spits, lifting up his face so his voice can really be heard. His sudden anger is enough to fight back all of his tears. Because he’s sick of it, he’s _sick_ of having to say this. Ever since he left home, ever since all of that happened, that’s all anyone’s called it. That’s _all_ the Silent Brothers have called it. Like this is some silly bedtime story and Magnus has…

Magic wouldn’t be like this. Magic wouldn’t do what this has done. They wouldn’t have reacted to magic like that. Magic wouldn’t have been why he found his mother in the barn. Magic wouldn’t have made his father-

Magic wouldn’t make flames like that. Magic is in all the good stories. Magic doesn’t burn.

That’s not what this is.

Brother Pelagius doesn’t respond for a moment. _“Alright.”_ His head tilts a little to one side. It looks oddly thoughtful.

And it might be the first time Magnus has ever been able to attribute _any_ sort of expression to a Silent Brother.

 _“These things you can do.”_ He waits, like he’s seeing if Magnus will object to that description. He continues once it looks like Magnus isn’t going to fight. _“Have you considered that it might have happened to keep you safe?”_

Magnus presses his lips together. He wants to bite one again, but he did too good a job of making them hurt, because even a little bit of pressure makes them sting enough to make his eyes water.

It… makes sense. In a strange way. It had never done anything bad, until-

That was the only time he hurt anyone. And - however much he hates to admit it - Brother Pelagius was right. He didn’t start it. He was- _it_ was just… fighting back. If he hadn’t felt those flames, if those flames hadn’t come out of his hands, he would’ve…

No. No, it’s still wrong. Somehow. Magnus has spent too long being told that it’s wrong. They wouldn’t have told him that if they hadn’t _known._ They must have known. They must have known that what he can do is wrong. That it’s bad. It must be. It has to be.

_“Has it ever done anything good?”_

Magnus closes his eyes. Tries not to think. Because it’s so clear that Brother Pelagius is _hearing_ him think, if he can ask a question like that. He hates it. He hates it. He _hates_ it.

But, that question…

“I could… reach things,” he says quietly. “Too high up, or far away, they’d just… be in my hand. All of a sudden.”

Brother Pelagius’s head is still tilted. He doesn’t respond. It’s like he’s waiting. Like he knows there’s more.

Magnus breathes out through his nose. “The bed would warm up. If I was cold. And once-”

He stops himself. He’s not supposed to say this. He’s never supposed to say this. He gets in trouble.

_“Go on.”_

They… they haven’t…

Magnus hasn’t gotten in trouble since he’s been here. He’s never been in trouble, for what he’s said, or what he’s done. What he can do. So, maybe…

“When I was seven, I fell, and I hurt my arm. It… broke.” He can still remember how it had looked, twisting the wrong way, the horrible _snapping_ sound it had made. “But when I got back home, it was better. It was fixed. The…” he doesn’t know what to call it. He’s never know what to call it. “ _It_ fixed it.”

They’d told him not to lie anymore. They’d told him he was making things up. He’d fought. He’d been crying, because it had hurt, and he'd been scared, and he hadn’t known what was going on. He’d gotten in trouble. For lying.

_“So it does good things. It can he helpful.”_

No.

Magnus can’t hear something like that. It’s wrong. The Silent Brothers are supposed to be smart. They should know better. It can’t be like that. It doesn’t make sense.

“But it does bad things,” Magnus insists, making sure he understands.

_“Yes. It does.”_

Magnus looks up. Because it’s… nice. That someone is agreeing with him. _Finally,_ someone is agreeing with him.

_“It does bad things. And good things.”_

“But I can’t choose.” Magnus shakes his head, like if he does it enough, his thoughts will fall into the right places, and stop jumbling around so much. “I don’t get to choose what it does. I don’t get to pick if it’s good or bad.” It’s why he doesn’t use it. Why he refuses to use it. Why he fights, any time he feels that itch in his hands, the one that’s too deep for him to scratch it away. Why he’s spent so many hours, so many nights, for as long as he can remember, scratching the skin of his palms until it broke open, trying to scratch away the itch, the tingle, the tint of blue. If he lets it happen, he doesn’t know what it’ll be. If it’ll be something good, or if it’ll hurt someone again. If he’ll hurt someone again.

_“Because you don’t know how to control it.”_

Magnus stops shaking his head. He focuses back on Brother Pelagius. “I _can’t_ control it,” he corrects, because it’s an important distinction.

Because if it’s something he _can’t_ control, it’s out of his hands. It wasn’t his decision.

Wasn’t his fault.

But if it’s something he just doesn’t know _how_ to do, then… then he should have known. Then it’s his own failing. Then it’s his fault.

And he can’t handle that. That can’t be true.

_“You could learn.”_

That-

That can’t be right. That’s a lie. A trick.

_“There are people who can do the same things that you can. And they learn about it. Learn how to control it. So it always does what they want it to.”_

That’s not… an _entirely_ new idea. They’ve mentioned that before. That there are others. That Magnus isn’t the only one who’s like this.

He’s still not sure he believes them. After all, Magnus has never seen any of these ‘warlocks’ they keep bringing up. He has no proof. And even though the Silent Brothers can do… unusual things, Magnus can tell it’s not the same as what he can do. They have those marks on their skin. They use those steles. They have things that _let_ them do what they do. Magnus doesn’t have any of that. Magnus just… is.

And he has no reason to believe that there’s anyone else out there that’s like him. Yes, the Silent Brothers didn’t seem very surprised to find out that Magnus can do these things, but that doesn’t mean anything. The Silent Brothers don’t seem to be surprised by _anything._ That doesn’t necessarily mean there are others.

But… if there _are…_

“They can… stop it? When they want to?”

Brother Pelagius’s head tilts again. But it doesn’t change anything about him. His expression. His tone. _“People still make mistakes. Everyone makes mistakes.”_ He waits a moment. _“But it’s much easier to prevent them when you understand what you can do.”_

That word again.

‘Understand.’

It sticks out. It… sticks. In Magnus’s brain.

He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand any of this. He’s never understood. He’s never understood why he can do these things. How he can do them. Why they happen, even when he doesn’t want them to.

“But I don’t… I don’t _want_ to use this.”

_“And you don’t have to.”_

Something twists in Magnus’s stomach. Or, maybe… it untwists. It feels… better. Than it had before. Than it has in months. It feels like…

He doesn’t have to be like this.

That’s the first bit of hope he’s felt in as long as he can remember.

_“Once you understand it, you’ll know how to control it. And then you can choose.”_

Magnus frowns. That’s more vague than he wants it to be. “I can choose to not have this?”

_“You can choose whether or not to use it. And if you do use it, you can choose how. If you want it to be good or bad.”_

That’s… something. It’s still something.

But it’s not as good as it sounded at first.

“Why can’t I just… ignore it? Pretend it doesn’t…” he chews his lip, ignoring the sting. “Why do I have to learn _how_ to use it if I don’t _want_ to use it?”

Brother Pelagius doesn’t respond, and Magnus feels a sudden jab of self-consciousness, a sudden sense of awareness that he’s talking out loud to someone who isn’t _saying_ anything. If anyone walked by, it’d sound like he’s talking to himself. He doesn’t usually talk to them this much. It’s unusual.

 _“You are very powerful. That is already done. It can’t be changed.”_ Brother Pelagius leans forward a bit. _“But you don’t have to be dangerous. You are only dangerous when you don’t understand your own abilities.”_

It makes sense.

Magnus _hates_ that it makes sense, but it does.

He hates that he has to accept it. That he has to acknowledge it. That he has to… _learn_ about it. It’s not his fault that he has it, he didn’t do anything to get it, he doesn’t _want_ it…

But it’s still his responsibility. He has to learn and understand and work just to control this thing he doesn’t want in the first place. It’s not fair.

It’s _not_ fair.

But, at least…

This is the first time he’s been given… an option. An alternative. This is the first time someone’s ever told him that there’s something he can _do._ He doesn’t want to do it, but it’s still there. It’s better than-

It’s better than sitting here. In this cold room. At the foot of this bed. _Waiting._ Waiting for the next horrible thing to happen. Waiting to lose control again, and have something happen without him wanting it to happen. Not being able to stop it.

At the very least, this wouldn’t be waiting. This would be doing something. Even if it feels so stupidly roundabout - learning how to use this thing just so he can _not_ use it - it’s still something. It’s a plan.

Right now, that’s the best he’s got.

“You know… how it works? You understand it?”

_“Not exactly. Our abilities are not the same as yours. But we understand enough to help.”_

It’s not ideal. Magnus isn’t even sure if it’s _good._

But nothing else is good. Nothing has been good. In such a long time.

At this point, he doesn’t think anything could make it _worse._

So he nods. “I could-” he stops himself. Rethinks his words. Chooses more carefully. “I could try.” He’s not making a commitment. He’s not promising. No one’s going to _make_ him do this. He absolutely refuses.

But… trying. That could be alright.

Doing something. Learning something. Getting out of bed every day. Getting out of this room, maybe. He never leaves this room. Now he might. That sounds… nice. Doing things again. Having something to do. A purpose. A distraction.

_“There’s something you have to do first.”_

Of course.

The _moment_ Magnus feels something vaguely resembling excitement, there’s a catch.

“What?”

Brother Pelagius tilts his head again. It looks like it’s the only thing he can do to try and make an expression. But since it’s unclear what that expression _is,_ it’s not very useful.

_“You need to bathe.”_

Everything happens at once.

Magnus slams his head back against the bed. And his hands claw against the floor, like he can push himself even further away. And his throat closes up. And his stomach lurches like he’s going to be sick. And his heart starts racing. Pounding. Loud enough to drown out his own thoughts. And his vision gets blurry. And-

And worst of all, he feels it. The itch in his palms. The heat under his skin. It’s like it’s letting him know that if anyone comes anywhere near him, it’ll blast them away. Set more of those flames.

And he can’t stop it.

“No!” He tries to shout, but his voice is shrill. It sounds more like shrieking. “No, no, nononono you _can’t,_ I can’t- you can’t make me!”

It feels like he’s running. He’s sitting perfectly still on the floor, like he’s been doing for _weeks,_ and it still feels like he’s running. He can’t catch his breath. His heart is beating too hard.

He doesn’t think he’s crying. He doesn’t think he’s speaking. But he feels tears and snot drip into his mouth, so he must be. What’s he saying? He can’t hear himself. He can’t feel himself crying. The only thing he can feel is the heat in his palms. Getting hotter. Making his fingers tingle. Until the feeling is so strong that he has to shake his hands. Has to get it out. Has to find _some way_ to get it out-

Brother Pelagius is holding out his hand. His palm extended toward Magnus.

_“Alright.”_

Magnus hears it faintly. Like someone’s whispering in his ear. It’s not how it usually sounds. It’s like Magnus is… blocking it out.

_“It’s alright. You’re alright.”_

Magnus slams his hands on the floor, trying to get the feeling to go away-

The floorboards crack under his fingers. Splinter. Shatter, in a way that wood isn’t supposed to shatter.

And there’s… blue. Little trails of blue, crawling over the broken pieces.

_“You’re alright.”_

It’s louder this time. Firmer.

_“Breathe.”_

Magnus chokes in as much air as he can. It’s a gasp. And it comes back out as a weak cough. It’s wrong. He can’t breathe.

_“Breathe.”_

He tries again. He gets a little more air, but it shakes right back out of him. He can’t hold it. He can’t keep it.

_“Breathe.”_

It’s easier. Still not good. But easier.

And it keeps happening. Every few seconds, Brother Pelagius tells him to breathe. And Magnus does. As best he can.

And eventually, he’s breathing.

And the feeling is gone. His hands are cold.

Magnus wants to start crying with relief, but-

Well. He can’t. He’s already crying.

They’ve told him this before. He’s refused to bathe since he got here. Since long before that, even. Months. There’s still dirt caked on his hands from travelling. The bottoms of his feet are almost black from walking the grounds barefoot. He smells. He knows he smells. He can smell himself. All the time. Constantly.

But he can’t take a bath.

There’s no water in this room. There never has been. He’s _refused_ to let anyone put water in this room. Not even so much as a tiny basin for his hands and face. Not a drop.

He’d only started _drinking_ water again when the lack of it had made him too sick to fight when they forced him to drink it. The idea of actually having water touch him, of being _in_ water-

Magnus gags.

He presses a hand to his mouth to stop it from getting any worse.

_“It’s alright. We won’t make you bathe.”_

It’s such a stupid thing to need to hear. It’s such a _stupid_ thing to find comforting. Magnus isn’t a baby. He isn’t a small child who languishes over the idea of needing to take a bath.

No.

Somehow, he’s even _worse_ than that.

_“What if I wash your hair?”_

Magnus frowns. And his hands start to shake.

_“You won’t be in the water. It won’t touch you. I promise.”_

Magnus reaches back. Touches where his hair is tied back at the base of his neck. Where it’s been tied this whole time. Months. The only thing he does is re-tie it when he needs to.

It’s too long now. He doesn’t like it being this long.

He doesn’t like it being this dirty.

He ties it back so he doesn’t have to think about it. So he can ignore how it feels. How it smells.

It’s long.

Long enough that, in the right situation, it probably _could_ be washed without… without the water being too close to him.

It seems… possible.

But not good.

Magnus rubs his lips together. “Maybe.” His voice is weaker than he wants it to be.

But Brother Pelagius nods. _“Alright.”_

Magnus sniffs. Now that he can breathe again, he can feel again. So he can feel everything dripping down his face. Dripping onto his clothes. He goes to wipe his eyes with the hem of his sleeve-

 _“Here.”_ Brother Pelagius holds up the handkerchief again. Holds it too close to himself. Holds it out of Magnus’s reach.

And this time…

The Silent Brothers are strong. They can do things. Things Magnus can’t even describe, much less explain.

So Magnus thinks that if he accidentally did something wrong, they’d be able to fight him. Stop him.

Magnus looks at the handkerchief. He ignores the fear creeping up his spine. The voice in his head telling him that this is wrong. His father’s voice, repeating, chanting, yelling, that this is wrong. That he can’t do this.

He looks at the handkerchief. _Really_ looks at it.

He wants it to be closer. He wants it to be in his hand. He wants it to move to his hand.

His skin heats up. His palms start to itch.

Something in his mind tells him to panic. Stop. _Stop-_

The handkerchief is in his hand.

Magnus looks down, making sure that’s what he’s really feeling. And it’s there. It’s right there, in his loose grip. The heat is gone from his hand. And he has the handkerchief instead.

He looks back up.

Brother Pelagius isn’t holding anything now. But he’s nodding. Slowly.

_“Very good.”_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original author's notes can be found [here](http://my-nameless-bliss.tumblr.com/post/154314589136).


	9. Rafael

Magnus ignores the sound of footsteps.

He ignores the creak of the floorboards in the living room.

He ignores the faint glow of light that comes in under the bedroom door.

He ignores the generic sounds of movement. The opening and closing of cupboards. The quiet beep of the buttons on the oven. Fridge door, drawers, things being moved around. The quiet sounds of movement in the kitchen.

Magnus ignores all of it. There's nothing unusual so far.

Well, it's admittedly a _little_ strange to hear someone messing about in the kitchen in the middle of the night. But there's hardly anything nefarious about it. It’s no cause to worry.

Besides, Magnus is almost asleep. _Finally_ almost asleep. It was 3:24 when he’d crawled into bed. It's probably been almost half an hour by now. And he's finally starting to feel sufficiently tired.

Fuck. It's his own damn fault for agreeing to schedule that job at midnight. He knew it would go this late. Actually, he'd thought it'd be significantly later than this. He was expecting to get home just in time for breakfast.

Then again, with the sounds coming from the kitchen, maybe breakfast is coming early today.

He ignores the sounds. Just ignores all of it. Nothing to worry about.

He ignores the sounds, and he tries to sleep.

He ignores the fridge opening and closing multiple times.

He ignores the slow, repetitive thump of something being cut with a dull knife.

He ignores the loud crash of something dropping to the floor-

Ah.

That'll do it.

Alexander jerks awake instantly, already struggling into an attack position even while he's still lying down.

“Shhhh.” Magnus rubs his hand across Alec’s bare shoulder. “Just one of the boys. Go back to sleep.”

Alexander goes through the motions of blinking even though he’s unable to open his eyes all the way. He's breathing too hard, his body is tense, and he clearly has _no_ idea where he is or what's happening. “S’wh- hnn?”

“It's just one of the boys in the kitchen. Nothing's wrong.” Magnus _gently_ tries to push him back onto the pillows. “Sleep.”

Alec’s brain must be catching up to the idea of being awake, because he glances over at the clock on his nightstand. Then he scrubs his hands across his eyes, and looks again. “It's past four.”

Lovely. That's exactly the sort of detail Magnus _didn't_ need to know.

“All the more reason for you to go back to sleep.”

There’s another clattering sound from the kitchen. It’s hard to tell - since the bedroom door is muffling the sounds - but Magnus would bet it’s a utensil being tapped against the lip of a bowl.

Alexander is still blinking groggily at the door. He’s struggled up into something resembling a sitting position, but he barely looks more alert than he had when he was sleeping. “I’ll…” his voice trails off, like he’s lost the rest of the sentence before he’s even started it. He shakes his head once. Sharply. And tries again. “I’ll go see-”

“No, you will not.” Magnus sits up (and the lack of protest from his body makes it unfortunately clear that he wasn’t even _close_ to falling asleep yet), and presses Alec’s shoulder a little more firmly. “I will.”

Alec makes a garbled noise of protest. “But… you’re tired.”

Magnus almost laughs. “No, _you’re_ tired. I just got home. Wasn’t even sleeping yet.”

“But…” Alexander frowns. He’s trying to argue, but his mind clearly isn’t prepared for that much work yet. “Th- could be a problem.”

And Magnus does laugh at that. “It’s not as though our sons are out there cooking meth, Alexander. It’s probably just Max getting a snack.”

Alec shifts, like he’s trying to get up, but instead he somehow ends up nestled back into the pillows. He blinks repeatedly, and his eyes droop further closed each time. “Could be…” his mouth starts to stretch into a yawn, “summoning a demon.”

Magnus rolls his eyes. “You can’t summon a demon in the kitchen. It’s too small.” He gives Alexander’s shoulder one last little squeeze before getting out of bed. “I know because I’ve tried.”

And besides, Magnus _sincerely_ hopes that Max hasn’t secretly been figuring out demon summoning on his own. Magnus certainly hasn’t been teaching him (since it doesn’t really seem like a practical skill for an eleven-year-old).

He stretches a bit as he stands up, as if to force the sleepiness out of his limbs, but that’s just wishful thinking. He hasn’t managed to wind down at all after being in work mode. “I’ll make sure everyone’s alright.” He turns back to make sure Alexander isn’t insisting on coming with him-

Ah.

Yes.

He’s already asleep. Face tucked into his pillow, mouth open, ready to start drooling in a minute or two.

Magnus isn’t sure if he should smile or roll his eyes again, so he does both, for good measure.

Once he’s left the safe cocoon of their bed, Magnus realizes that his pajamas aren’t warm enough to be acceptable for a voyage out into the cold apartment. And-

And apparently, Magnus’s magic is even more awake than his body, because one of his silk robes slings itself over his shoulders without him even consciously making the decision to get it.

Hm. That’s convenient.

Magnus makes himself perk up a bit as he slips his arms into the sleeves and gently nudges open the bedroom door. After all, just because it _seems_ like everything is fine, he shouldn’t really dismiss the possibility that someone’s doing something they shouldn’t. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to forget the morning that he and Alexander woke up to a living room _full_ of frogs, because Max had figured out how to conjure them up but _not_ how to put them back.

Luckily, a quick glance around the dim loft doesn’t show any warning signs of catastrophe. The only thing that seems out of place is the light coming from the kitchen, and that’s technically only unusual because of the hour.

People can’t cook in their sleep, can they? Surely they’d wake up from the sound of the oven door slamming, or the feeling of something cold from the fridge.

Still, just to be safe, Magnus approaches the kitchen as gently as possible, not wanting to interrupt whatever might be…

Oh.

Rafael’s standing at the counter, next to the sink. And he’s amassed a small bakery’s worth of supplies. Various jars and containers are open and scattered across the counters - Magnus sees flour, sugar (brown, white, _and_ powdered), butter, and a few of the smaller containers of basic baking ingredients that Magnus can’t identify without reading the labels. The oven light is on, and the little screen says it’s preheating. There’s a pizza pan sitting on top of it, and it appears to already be greased and floured.

But Rafa doesn’t seem to find anything unusual with the pre-dawn baking mess he’s gotten himself into. His hands are buried in a mixing bowl, kneading and rubbing with his fingers… cutting butter into flour, by the look of it.

He’s in the oversized t-shirt and flannel pants that he wears as pajamas basically every damn night. He usually wears an apron when he cooks, but for now he must not mind getting flour on his pajamas. His hair is braided back in the intricate design he always keeps it in when he goes to bed. And because his hands are otherwise occupied, he’s taken off his stim bracelet, and he’s holding it between his teeth. It shifts and sways a bit against his chin as he grinds his teeth across the beads.

Well. So far, there’s not really anything worrisome. Nothing out of the ordinary… apart from the fact that Rafa’s decided he _really_ needs to be baking something at four in the morning.

His head tilts a little when Magnus gets closer. Magnus can tell he's been noticed, but Rafa doesn’t acknowledge him. He doesn’t even pause. He just keeps tossing around the contents of the bowl, finding bigger chunks of butter to rub away into the flour.

Magnus waits a moment. Tries not to get ahead of himself. Things could still be fine.

“Can’t sleep?”

Rafa’s shoulders pull back a bit. “Bad dream,” he says quietly, teeth still clenched around his bracelet.

Oh.

He…

Magnus hums lightly, forcing himself to not leap into panic mode just because he’s been caught off-guard. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

Rafa makes a small, noncommittal noise. “Few months.”

Well. It has been _significantly_ longer than that since he’s told Magnus or Alec anything of the sort. Hell, it’s been at least a year. Maybe two. Magnus supposes it makes sense that a thirteen-year-old doesn’t want to crawl into bed with his parents after a nightmare anymore, but still. They’d hoped Rafael would at least tell them if he was having problems.  

Then again, Rafael doesn’t seem particularly upset with his late-night baking, so he seems to have a system that works for him.

Still, now that Magnus is aware of it, and seeing as he wasn’t likely to fall asleep anyway…

He walks over to the counter and starts washing his hands in the sink. “What are we making?”

Rafa frowns down at the mixing bowl for a few seconds, then turns to aim the expression at Magnus.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” Magnus says lightly. “What, you think you and Dad are the only ones who know how to bake? I was cooking centuries before _any_ of you were born.”

Rafa doesn’t look convinced. It’s not entirely surprising. Apart from family dinners, Rafa doesn’t usually accept cooking help from _anyone_ anymore. The days of baking with Alec are apparently long behind him. He likes being able to make things by himself, if only for the bragging rights of saying _he_ made it, no one else.

But his nightmare must have really thrown him off, because after another moment of contemplation, he scoots the mixing bowl closer to Magnus. “Scones.”

That’s even _less_ surprising. Scones have been a staple of Rafa’s baking for as long as he’s been here. It started with sitting on the counter and silently watching Alexander make them on Saturday mornings, but it barely took any time at all for him to memorize the recipe, and then _change_ the recipe (because apparently the recipe wasn’t reaching its full potential), and by now, Magnus is completely certain that Rafael could make a perfect scone in his sleep.

It also explains the unusual array of ingredients scattered across the counter. Rafa got bored with the ‘usual’ scone flavors at least five years ago, and he’s been experimenting ever since. They’ve had some… interesting scones over the years, to say the least.

Magnus flicks his hands, shooing away any trace of water.

And without either of them saying a word, they figure out their arrangement. Magnus takes over at the mixing bowl, checking for any last chunks of butter and scraping the residual flour away from the sides. And Rafa busies himself with the rest of the ingredients. Magnus starts mixing while Rafa starts throwing in other dry ingredients (these days, he prefers measuring with his hands instead of actual measuring cups).

It’s rather nice - as far as pre-dawn post-nightmare scone making goes. Rafael certainly doesn’t seem distressed, so Magnus doesn’t bother trying to push anything. If scones can do the trick, that’s fine by him.

So it comes as quite a surprise when Rafa quietly says “I don’t remember them anymore,” as he dumps some brown sugar into the mixing bowl, bracelet still clenched between his teeth. He waits a moment as Magnus tosses it together, then adds another small handful. “I do in the dreams. I th- I _think_ I do, anyway.” He brushes off his hands into the bowl. “But then when I wake up it’s all… blurry.”

Well.

Alright.

Alright, then.

Part of Magnus wishes he could just… tap out of this situation. Go back to bed and try to sleep for a few hours. Give himself some time to prepare for this conversation.

But it’s not as though wishful thinking is going to do any good right now.

Magnus takes a deep breath (and belatedly hopes that it doesn’t sound as resigned as it feels). “That’s understandable.” He tries to find the right tone of voice, something that’s light enough to not sound severe, but severe enough that it doesn’t seem like he’s taking this too lightly.

God, it’s too early in the morning for this.

“I think it’s fairly common for people to lose their memories from when they were that young.” He pauses for a moment to let Rafa shake an inordinate amount of cinnamon into the bowl. “I think it’s safe to say that _most_ people don’t have many solid memories from before they were five.”

It seems logical, anyway. He should probably check with Alexander before saying things like that. Of course Magnus can say it’s normal to forget that age. He’s forgotten things from his early _hundreds;_ remembering something from his early childhood is a laughable conceit for him. But maybe it’s not the same for someone with a more reasonable lifespan.

Rafael doesn’t seem affected by the statement, one way or the other. He just keeps grinding away on his bracelet as he switches out the cinnamon shaker for nutmeg.

It’s probably a minute or two later when he finally speaks again.

“I think I should feel bad about it. Guilty. They’re-” He swallows. “They _were_ my…”

Magnus can’t quite bring himself to breathe as he waits for Rafael to finish that sentence.

He hasn’t mentioned his birth parents. Not once. Not once in eight years. Not since the day Alec found him, when he’d needed to explain where they were. What had happened to them.

He hasn’t mentioned them since. After that day, Rafa never used the words ‘parents’ or ‘family’ until he started using them to mean _this_ family.

But Rafael doesn’t say anything else. He just shuffles around the kitchen for a minute, and returns with one handful of chopped almonds, and one handful of blueberries, which both get dropped into the mixing bowl. Silently.

Well. If he hasn’t finished his thought yet, Magnus is fairly certain he isn’t going to at all.

Magnus hums as he keeps tossing everything together. He doesn’t even question when Rafa’s next choice for the scones turns out to be a few sprinkles of cayenne pepper (Magnus doesn’t think he’s ever paired that with blueberries before).

When the silence has gone on long enough that Magnus is _sure_ that Rafa isn’t going to say anything else, he takes over. “You know, I don’t remember my parents at all.”

Hm. It feels… it feels somewhat strange to actually say that out loud. Especially so suddenly. With no buildup.

Rafa stops for a moment. Stops, and looks at Magnus. Carefully. “Really?”

Magnus nods. “Well, I suppose I remember… events. Certain things they said. But the details - what they looked like, what they sounded like.” He hums dismissively. “All gone. Has been for centuries.”

Rafa keeps looking at him for a few more moments. His expression makes it clear that there’s a question coming, he’s just trying to figure out what he wants the question to be before he asks it.

While he’s contemplating, he gets something out of the fridge. He comes back with a carton of cream.

“Do you feel guilty about it?” He finally asks as he slowly pours the cream into the bowl, eyeballing the measurement.

Magnus tilts his head, just barely keeping it from looking like an actual wince. “You have to remember, our situations were _very_ different.” He dusts his hands into the bowl and takes the cream from Rafa to put it back in the fridge.

(Rafa likes mixing dry and wet ingredients together, he likes the way his hands feel in the bowl. So Magnus doesn’t bother trying to keep the bowl to himself. He knows this isn’t his job.)

Magnus leans against the counter as Rafa starts mixing. “By the time I left home, my parents weren’t the type of people who _deserve_ to be remembered.” He raises his eyebrows. “When I realized I couldn’t remember the sound of my step-father’s voice anymore, it was the happiest I’d been in… decades.” Hell, he’s _still_ happy about that. He’s grateful every goddamn day that there’s no one left on earth who remembers that man.

The dough comes together pretty quickly as Rafa kneads it and squishes it between his hands. Sometimes he stops to get a particular fistful, and squishes it slowly. The purplish stains in the dough make it clear that he’s popping the blueberries.

The oven plays a little song, that little song it plays to signal that it’s done preheating. That little song where the last note is so _painfully_ flat.

And, as always, Magnus and Rafael pointedly hum the _correct_ note in unison.

Magnus smiles, but Rafa doesn’t even acknowledge it. He’s too busy gathering up the dough and messily rolling it into a vaguely-spherical shape. The process is still working intuitively for them, because Magnus grabs the greased pizza pan right as Rafa gets a butter knife out of the drawer.

They’re quiet again as Rafael sets the dough-ball in the middle of the pan and starts carefully smushing it down into a thick circle with his palms. When it’s shaped and flattened to his satisfaction, he steps aside without a word.

And Magnus knows that means it's his job to cut the round into slices. Rafa’s always liked having Magnus cut things like this. He says Magnus cuts the best lines of anyone in the family (which is a nice enough compliment, as far as Magnus is concerned).

They could drop it. Magnus knows they could drop it. Rafa’s clearly not looking to initiate any more conversation. And even though he _knows_ how important this is, Magnus still isn’t exactly thrilled about having such a painful discussion with anyone, much less having to have it with his barely-teenaged son.

Still. If it could help, even a little…

He takes a deep, preparatory breath. And tries to make it sound like he’s not at _all_ uncomfortable with what he’s about to say.

“I’ve forgotten a lot of people. Not just my parents.” He keeps his focus on the scones, on keeping his hand steady. “And with some of them, I’m perfectly happy about that. But some-” he presses his lips together. He takes another breath, and tries again. “Some were good people. People I desperately wish I could remember.” He turns the pan, and starts another cut.

And he knows what Rafa wants to ask, so to spare him the trouble of getting up the courage, Magnus goes ahead and answers it without being asked. “I do feel bad about that. Forgetting them. I’ve always felt _horrible_ about that. At this point, I’m fairly certain that I always will.” He looks up at Rafa, even though Rafa’s not looking at him. “But I don’t feel guilty. Because it wasn’t my choice. That’s how memory works - or doesn’t work, in this case. I’m just too old. And you were just too young.”

Rafael’s still staring down at Magnus’s hands. His eyebrows are furrowed. His jaw is moving a little faster around his bracelet. He’s thinking.

But he must not like his train of thought, because the _moment_ Magnus finishes cutting and separating the scones, Rafael snatches the tray right out from under him and takes it to the oven without a word.

Well, if it’s something Magnus doesn’t want to talk about, he imagines it’s something Rafael _really_ doesn’t want to talk about. And it’s not hard to see why.

So Magnus gathers up the dishes (though with Rafa’s preference for hand-measuring and hand-mixing, the _only_ dishes are the mixing bowl and the knife). Normally, he’d be responsible, and wash them right away - without magic. But it’s four in the goddamn morning, so he doesn’t feel the slightest bit guilty about abandoning them in the sink without so much as a rinse.

And with the scones safely nestled on the top rack, Magnus and Rafa settle in.

On the floor, right in front of the oven.

Rafa sits cross-legged, with his elbows resting on his knees, so he can slip his bracelet back onto his wrist and resume his preferred method of absently chewing on the beads.  Magnus sits next to him, knees tucked up toward his chest, his feet pressed against the bottom of the oven (which is just _perfectly_ shy of being too warm to touch). He leans back a little bit, supporting himself on his hands.

They sit. And they watch the scones baking.

Rafael loves to watch things cook. He always has. He’s better than any kitchen timer. It’s actually quite convenient, really. They can go about the apartment and do whatever else needs to be done, knowing that Rafa will shout for them when things are ready. And it’s not just baking (though that seems to be his favorite). He’s probably the only person Magnus has ever known who actually _enjoys_ watching a pot on the stove, waiting for the water to boil. He’ll sit on the counter and watch for _hours_ while a sauce simmers and reduces, so long as he doesn’t have anything else to do.

He usually sits by himself, but Magnus doesn’t want to leave. Rafa would tell him if he wanted to be alone, and he hasn’t yet, so Magnus is going to sit right here for the next twelve minutes and watch the scones rise through the window on the oven door.

“I remember my bedroom,” Rafa says. His voice is lighter than it had been before. Like this isn’t part of the serious conversation anymore. Just a regular thought. “I shared it. There were two of us.” He tips his head to one side. “But sometimes… I can’t tell if that’s- if that’s what it _really_ looked like. Or if it’s something else. Like… it could be something I saw in a movie. And I just _think_ it was my room.” His lips scrunch up for a moment. “Sometimes I think the walls were blue. But sometimes I think they were wood panels. I think… I think a _lot_ of the Institute was wood. And marble. Everything was… older. Not like the one here. It was fancier.”

Magnus hums in acknowledgement. He wasn’t particularly familiar with the Buenos Aires Institute before the attack, but that description is easy enough to imagine.

And, also…

Magnus doesn’t want to push him. Doesn’t want to add any unnecessary pressure to what’s already a _very_ shitty situation.

So he keeps his voice as easy and conversational as possible. “Well, you know, it’s all still there. If you’re ever interested in seeing if it’s like you remember.”

Rafa’s posture falls a bit. “Huh?”

Magnus shrugs. “Parts of it were rebuilt, so I’m sure some things are different than when you were there. But I bet it’d still be familiar enough.” He glances over-

Rafael’s expression is incredibly intense. He’s staring at the scones with so much focus that Magnus wouldn’t be surprised if his gaze bored a hole right through the oven.

He opens his mouth. Closes it again. Swallows.

And, as always, Magnus is momentarily floored by just how many times he’s seen that _exact_ same pattern of expressions from Alexander. Honestly, it’s like they practice in a mirror together.

“Have you ever gone back?” Rafa asks quietly.

Magnus frowns. “To the Institute?”

Rafa shakes his head. “To your… to where you grew up.”

Oh.

Magnus’s hands twitch against the floorboards. He feels heat gather in his palms. He feels a little itch, just under his skin.

“No. No, I haven’t.” He takes a deep breath, and then another, and then another, until the heat seeps out of his hands and back into the rest of his body where it belongs. “In all these years, I’ve only gone back to Indonesia once. And I stayed as far away from my old home as physically possible. And even then, I did _not_ have a good experience.”

“Hm.” Rafa starts chewing his bracelet again. But it feels different. More nervous. Almost frantic.

Magnus tilts his head. “But there’s no _universal_ right choice,” he says, trying to be as gentle as possible without it seeming like actual coddling. “For me, I know the right choice is to never go anywhere near my old home again. But for you, the right choice might be different.”

Rafa doesn’t say anything. He just keeps chewing. Keeps watching the oven.

And when a few more minutes pass in silence, Magnus assumes it’s fair game to finally change the subject. “So, are you going back to bed when these are done, or are we about to have breakfast?”

It takes a few moments, but eventually, Rafa smiles a bit. “Depends. Can I have coffee?”

Magnus tips his head back. “Oooooh, that was a valiant effort, but it’s _not_ going to work.”

Of course. Trust Rafael to use an emotional situation as a chance to bend the rules. Max may be bolder about blatantly disobeying, even in the face of consequences, but Rafa has always been _uncannily_ good at manipulating Magnus and Alec into changing the rules for his benefit. God, it had taken them _years_ to pick up on it.

It’s those goddamn dimples. No one wants to assume a kid with a smile _that_ sweet is scamming them.

Rafa raises his eyebrows, in a truly _skilful_ display of intentionally upping his cuteness. “Dad would let me have coffee.”

“Ha! Nice try.” Magnus bumps his shoulder against Rafa’s. “Dad’s the one who doesn’t want you two drinking coffee in the first place. _I’m_ the lenient one.”

Rafa rolls his eyes, and his face squishes down into an expression of reluctant defeat that’s unintentionally _much_ cuter than his intentional cuteness could ever be. “You know Jace and Simon let us drink coffee all the time when we stay with them,” he says, playing up the defiance of it as much as possible.

Magnus chuckles. “Yes, I _do_ know about that.” He looks over at Rafa. “Don’t tell Dad I know about that.”

“ _Papaaa,”_ Rafael whines, but in the way that makes it clear that he knows he’s not going to win.

So Magnus doesn’t dignify it with a response. He just goes back to watching the scones - which look like they’re almost done. Then again, Magnus has always liked his baked goods a bit _gooier_ than the rest of the family, so he knows his opinion will end up being irrelevant.

Rafa clears his throat. “If- if I. If I _did_ want to go back there…”

“Then we could go back there,” Magnus finishes for him. “Whatever you think would be best. Just a quick visit, just you and me, the whole family, heck, we could even make a trip out of it if you wanted. Travel around for a bit. It’d be a nice opportunity for a vacation.” He tilts his head in Rafa’s direction. “Is it something you’re interested in?”

Rafa grinds his teeth against his bracelet for a few moments.

“Maybe.”

Magnus smiles. “Alright. Just let me know.”

And even though it might be a _bit_ much, Magnus touches the back of Rafa’s head. Runs his hand gently down the intricate design of his braided hair.

Rafa leans into the touch… but only for a second or two. Then he’s springing back up to his feet, turning off the oven and reaching for the oven mitt in one movement. “Do you want one?”

“Of course, they look delicious.” Besides, Magnus would really rather stay awake until Rafa gives up and passes out for a few more hours. At this point, Magnus has given up on sleep for himself, and he’s pretty sure he’ll be staying awake through breakfast. He doesn’t have anything scheduled until evening, so he can catch up once everyone gets settled into the day.

But he’s not sure he’ll be able to last that long, unless-

He smirks.

“But I think I’m going to get myself a cup of coffee first.”

“Papa!”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original author's notes can be found [here](http://my-nameless-bliss.tumblr.com/post/155492342076).


	10. Magnus & Julien - Six Months

Magnus breathes in.

And he holds it. He holds it as long as he possibly can. Because he knows it’s going to come out as some sort of truly _pathetic_ noise. A whimper, or a moan, or even outright begging. And he’s not going to let that happen. He’s already done more than enough of that for one night.

And, more importantly, he knows that if he does anything to signify that he’s getting close, Julien will stop.

Again.

God, Magnus is going to die like this, isn’t he? In this bed, biting down on a pillow to keep himself quiet, with his hands tied _securely_ behind his back, and with-

Fuck.

With _four_ of Julien’s fingers inside him.

Honestly, Magnus hadn’t even known that was _possible_ before tonight. But now, he’s pretty damn sure that he’s never going to want anything but this for the rest of his life.

If he could just- _god,_ if he could just get a little bit more. It feels like every time Julien moves his hand, he’s pulling his fingers further out and not pushing them back in as deep. At this rate, any moment now he’ll probably pull away entirely and leave Magnus with nothing.

Shit, how long does he plan on drawing this out? They must have been doing this for, for… Magnus genuinely thinks it could be several _hours_ now. Hours and hours of this horrific _teasing,_ Julien giving him so much, and then stopping as soon as it could actually be enough to _finally_ make Magnus come.

This isn’t sex. This is torture.

Julien twists his wrist, which is _fantastic,_ but - goddammit - he immediately starts to pull back. Slowly starts slipping his fingers out yet again. But, this time…

_Oh-_

Magnus feels Julien’s tongue. Right alongside his fingers.

“Oh, fuck- _fuck!”_

Yes, this. This might do it. If Julien keeps this up for long enough, this might actually do it.

And apparently, that’s encouraging enough for Magnus to stop caring about minimizing his reactions, because before he can think any better of it, he pushes back. In this _highly_ undignified position, he doesn’t really have the appropriate leverage, and the movement isn’t really helpful at all.

But it’s enough to be noticeable. Because Julien takes his mouth away, and-

And he’s laughing.

Magnus fucking _hates_ him.

“Now, now, Maggie. Surely you don’t need to come yet, do you? You can last much longer than this.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” Magnus snaps. Julien’s opinion is irrelevant. He came _ages_ ago. That’s long since dried all over Magnus’s ass. God, it feels like that was sometime last _week,_ not earlier tonight.

Julien just keeps up with that infuriating laughter. But apparently Magnus’s input wasn’t welcome, because Julien gives his ass one quick, _hard_ bite as punishment, although-

Mm. It actually helps far more than it hurts.

But, still. Not enough.

He’s close. He’s so close. How can he be this goddamn close without coming? It shouldn’t be physically possible. He’s been right on the brink of an orgasm for so long that he can barely remember what it’s like to _not_ feel like this. Julien has always been a fucking _bastard_ about dragging things out as long as he can, but this is ridiculous. This is cruelty, just for the sake of it.

If Magnus could just get a _bit_ more stimulation. If Julien could just move his fingers a bit quicker. If Magnus could just get a bit of friction on his cock. If Julien…

Well.

If Julien’s not going to do it…

It’s not exactly a familiar principle. Magnus may have a rather extensive history of selling his magic to tamper with other people’s sex lives, but he’s never used it for himself. He’s never needed to, really. At least, not in this context. Certainly not right in the middle of proceedings like this (Magnus would greatly prefer to think of this as the _end_ of proceedings, but he’s starting to fear that Julien thinks they’re still very much in the middle).

It’s not exactly the wisest of decisions.

It’s a fucking stupid decision, actually.

But right now, he can’t make himself care. He needs this. He can do this. He can figure this out. Fabricate a hint of friction on his cock. Convince his body that he’s feeling _more_ than he’s being given. Julien’s hands are nowhere near Magnus’s cock - they haven’t been anywhere near Magnus’s cock _all goddamn night_ \- so he shouldn’t even notice.

The only catch is that Julien hasn’t told him he’s allowed to come yet. If Magnus comes without permission, there’ll certainly be some sort of annoying repercussions-

Then again, Julien’s ‘punishments’ have only ever been inflicted during sex. So if Magnus disobeys by finally having his orgasm, what can Julien possibly do? It’ll be out of his hands by then.

Besides, at this point, Magnus genuinely cannot make himself care. He needs to come. He needs to come right now.

He bites down on the pillow again, trying to muffle the embarrassing noises that keep getting stuck in his throat. He tenses and flexes his fingers (as best he can, since they’re currently severely lacking both mobility and adequate blood flow). He takes the deepest breath he can manage.

And he tries to focus. He starts it with the feeling of Julien’s fingers, the feeling of his tongue, the feeling of his hand twisting…

Magnus focuses. Focuses on what he’s feeling, and slowly, _carefully,_ tries to add to it. Tries to amplify the stimulation in his ass. Tries to suggest the feeling of a hand around his cock. Tries to give himself more.

It’s not something he’s ever done before, so it’s far from perfect, but it-

_Yes._

It’s enough.

His heart is pounding. He can feel the heat of his magic pulsing through him in time with his blood. It’s getting hard to breathe. Everything is tensing. It’s like every muscle in him is squeezing right into his gut. It’s impossible to keep himself quiet.

“Maggie,” Julien says harshly. A warning. And he starts to pull his fingers out again.

Hm.

Too late.

Magnus twists his face away from the pillows, because he’s fairly certain he’ll suffocate if he doesn’t. Then again, it’s not like he’s really breathing anyway.

The heat sparks at the base of his spine.

There’s that moment, the one right when it hits the hardest, where Magnus’s mouth falls open, and it feels like he should be _screaming,_ but nothing can get out of his throat. It’s too tight. Too tense. God, it feels like his whole body is trying to break apart, and he can’t even make a sound.

It’s too good. It’s too good, it’s too goddamn good, _nothing_ is supposed to be this good.

When he finally manages to choke in another insufficient breath, the sound finally comes out. Loud. Thick. Broken.

He’s never felt like this before. And yes, he may think that _every_ time, but this time he really means it. He’s lightheaded. His body can’t decide if it wants to be completely tense or completely limp. He’s feeling so much, it’s like he can’t feel anything.

He can’t feel anything, and he can’t breathe, and he can’t speak, and he certainly can’t care that Julien is going to be upset with him for this.

“Magnus-”

Ah. Right on cue. He sounds-

Oddly, he doesn’t sound particularly upset. He sounds… surprised? Why should he…

The heat hasn’t gone away.

His orgasm is over. His body is loose, and finally relaxed after all this time. It’s over. It’s completely over.

But he can still feel the heat. At the base of his spine. In his fingertips.

He smells smoke.

Shit.

It’s a struggle to lift his head in this position, but when he does, he sees it right away.

The bed curtains are on fire. Just to Magnus’s right, just a few inches above the floor. Flames.

Blue flames.

_“Shit!”_

Act first, come up with an excuse later.

Magnus breaks the cord around his wrists - and he’s fairly certain the sudden panic sends the frayed remains across the room with an alarming amount of force. Since he didn’t _intentionally_ set the fire, it takes a moment to isolate the source of the flames. He’s still too startled to think clearly. The fire just keeps climbing the thick fabric, smoking, crackling, growing inch by inch-

And then it disappears, as suddenly and easily as it had sparked into existence.

Magnus lowers his hands.

There’s still a bit of smoke. But on the whole, the damage is minimal. It’s only one of the curtains, and it can’t be more than three or four inches that have been singed.

Magnus takes a breath.

Alright.

Excuses.

A candle fell over. Simple enough. The color was… what, an odd dye in the fabric? A trick of the light? Just Julien’s imagination? Magnus broke the bonds on his wrists because the cord was weak. Already fraying. And he put out the fire-

Fuck.

He doesn’t have an excuse for that. There’s nothing. The nearest water is in the pitcher on the far side of the room. Nowhere near the bed. Maybe if Julien didn’t see too clearly?

_Fuck._

Well. Six months. It’s longer than he thought he’d last. Longer than he’s lasted with anyone else. Hell, he’s impressed with himself for making it this far. Granted, it’s not exactly the setting he’d envisioned for this conversation (not that he’d envisioned ever having this conversation with Julien at all), but still.

It’s time.

Magnus turns around. “Julien, there’s-”

“You’re a warlock.”

Magnus closes his mouth.

What-

“Yes?”

Magnus doesn’t mean to say it like a question. But Julien had said it like an answer. A fact. An accusation.

But he can’t… he can’t know that. He can’t. Magnus has never heard someone use that word without _knowing_ what they’re saying. Even when someone from the mundane world specifically finds him out for his services, the term ‘warlock’ is hardly used. Other titles seem to be more popular these days. Wizard, mage, even alchemist. Not warlock. No one calls him a warlock, unless they have a reason to know better.

Oh god, he’s not one of the nephilim, is he? Magnus doesn’t think he’ll be able to live with himself if he finds out he’s been unwittingly having sex with a _shadowhunter_ all these months.

“How do you… know?” Magnus asks carefully. His brain is still struggling to catch up to the situation. Still trying to break through the post-orgasm haze and return to functionality.

Julien is standing at the foot of the bed. His posture is tense, like he still hasn’t stopped reacting to the panic of the fire.

But his face. His face is calm. Not pleasant, but calm. Contained. Uneasily so. His eyes are narrowed. And they-

They flash. For just a moment.

Green.

So…

Huh.

Magnus puts a hand to his mouth.

And he laughs. It’s a weak sound (he still hasn’t fully caught his breath), but it feels downright necessary. He’s just been pulled in too many directions too quickly. He still hasn’t found his footing. He’s still shaken.

And Julien is a werewolf.

Six months, and suddenly. A warlock, and a werewolf.

Magnus’s head hasn’t cleared at all. If anything, it feels more muddled than ever. He can’t handle information _this_ new and _this_ unexpected. Not at all once. Not so suddenly. Maybe if he’d been eased into the revelation, it’d be different. But like this…

All he can do is laugh.

But Julien isn’t laughing. He’s is still standing at the foot of the bed, still rigid, still… upset. He presses his lips together, and exhales loudly. “You find this _amusing?_ ” he asks, his voice quiet, and surprisingly unsteady.

“You don’t?” Magnus doesn’t think that’s possible. This isn’t just amusing, this is absolutely hilarious. “The both of us spending six months _desperately_ pretending to be mundanes, and the both of us, downworlders the whole time? The irony of it is too beautiful.” He shrugs, and sits back on his heels. “You can’t tell me you don’t think it’s even a _bit_ humorous.”

Well. Judging by the look on Julien’s face, maybe he can.

Magnus tilts his head. He may not be laughing anymore, but he’s still not going to let Julien’s grumpiness ruin his fun. “Oh don’t be like that. Honestly, it’s not as though-”

“How old are you?”

Ah.

That’ll do it.

Magnus can feel his face fall. He can feel his whole body sag, just a little.

But he fights it quickly enough. Pulls himself together. He pulls back his shoulders, lifts his chin, raises an eyebrow. “A warlock never reveals their real age, darling.”

Julien’s face constricts slightly. And he… recoils. Takes a step back. Flinches away.

Which makes sense. Magnus has never spoken to him like that before. Magnus has never really spoken like _himself_ before. With weight. With age. With that small hint of easy condescension.

Julien recovers himself. He steps around to the side of the bed, one hand gripping the bedpost much too tightly. “For the past six months, you have told me that you are twenty-two years old.” His voice is getting quieter with each word. Just a tense, tight whisper. “Is that true?”

Magnus looks at him. For several moments. Weighing his options.

None of them are very good.

He sighs. But he doesn’t shrink back. “I may have understated it a bit.”

Julien’s nostrils flare. Magnus can see his fingertips press into the bedpost.

Excellent. This. More of this.

It’s been a few weeks since they’ve fought. Really fought, anyway. They argue almost constantly. Their only types of interaction are sex and light bickering (though the bickering frequently ends up transferring through to the sex). But sometimes, they fight. At least once a month, one of their nights goes wrong, and they end up thoroughly shouting at each other until Magnus gives up and storms off home. That’s just how it is, with them.

So the look on Julien’s face isn’t at all surprising. Disappointing, perhaps. But not surprising.

“Magnus,” he says firmly, so _obviously_ about to snap at any moment, “how old are you?”

It seems like such a silly sticking point. Of all the things to care about right now, Magnus genuinely cannot fathom why _this_ is so important to Julien. He’d certainly never seemed to give a fuck when he thought he was damn near _twice_ Magnus’s age. By mundane standards, their age difference has always been on the unseemly side. Now it’s just skewed in the opposite direction.

Julien is staring him down. Waiting. Waiting for Magnus to tell him how angry he should be.

Magnus wants to roll his eyes, but he doesn’t exactly want to exacerbate the situation either, so he has the decency to close them first. “I am…” he sighs. “I am a few years past my second century.”

And after savoring his last few moments of peace, he opens his eyes again.

It looks like Julien is breathing too hard. His hand is so goddamn tense on the bedpost it’s like he’s-

Well, given the circumstances, Magnus thinks using the descriptor of ‘clawing’ into the wood might be a bit on the nose.

“Two _hundred_ years,” Julien bites out. Magnus can see his throat working more than necessary. It’s like his mouth is already trying to speak, even though he’s still choosing the words. “For six months, you’ve had the _nerve_ to tell me, over and over again, that you are _centuries_ younger than you really are. To constantly be so flagrantly dishonest, to lie to me like that-”

“Oh don’t pretend to be all high and mighty about this,” Magnus cuts in. Because this is ridiculous. He can handle sitting in silence while Julien yells at him if he’s making a halfway decent point, but this is… this is _ridiculous._

Magnus suddenly feels like this is too important for him to be kneeling on the bed, so he forces himself to get up. To stand, facing Julien, on equal ground. “You can’t suddenly decide to value the truth when you know damn well that there hasn’t been a _shred_ of honesty between us since the moment we met.”

“This isn’t the same-”

“Of course it is! We have had _one_ honest conversation in six goddamn months and even then, it only happened because I _forced_ you into it.” Magnus wants to take a step forward, but he manages to make himself take a step back instead. His voice is already rising, he doesn’t need to let himself get physically invested as well. His magic’s already gotten out of his control once tonight. “We have done nothing but lie to each other all this time, and you have no fucking right to pretend that _this_ lie is the only one that’s unacceptable just because you don’t like it.”

Julien slams his hand into the bedpost, hard enough to make that side of the frame shift. “There is a difference between choosing not to share pieces of information with someone, and repeatedly claiming to be _hundreds_ of years younger than you really are.”

“Semantics,” Magnus scoffs. “Just because I told an actual lie while you’ve had your _dozens_ of lies of omission, that doesn’t somehow make me _more_ dishonest than you’ve been-”

“You told me you were _twenty!”_ Julien’s voice finally breaks out of his quietly contained anger. Finally slips into the loud, shaking rage that Magnus has become unfortunately accustomed to. “You let me treat you like an inexperienced little boy. For what, amusement? Watching me coddle you while you pretended to not know any better?” He runs a hand through his hair, gripping tightly at the back of his head. “God, I should have seen right through that sweet little ‘never been fucked’ routine. It was a nice touch, I admit,” he spits out, harsh and bitter. “You were _very_ convincing.”

Magnus takes a breath.

And another.

And… another.

He’s not any less outraged. He’s probably even more upset than he was before.

But now, he’s quiet.

“That part was true,” he says. And it’s surprisingly easy to keep his voice calm. Even. “I meant it. No one had ever offered. Before you.”

Julien has no comeback. Not immediately, anyway. He seems to be copying Magnus’s calmer, more dignified rage. But it’s still rage. “You let me think you were so young. You are hundreds of years older than me, and you let me _treat_ you like you were young, and I was old. Knowing the whole time that it was bullshit.” He gives one soft, bitter laugh. “You made me make a fool of myself for you.”

Magnus blinks. Bites the inside of his cheek. Rubs the tips of his fingers across his thumb.

He shouldn’t-

He _shouldn’t._

He swallows.

“I’ve never been young,” Magnus says quietly. “Not for as long as I can remember. The lie wasn’t… purposeful. I was pretending to be a mundane so it was just-” he shakes his head, “necessary. I didn’t mean for that particular deception to have any weight. But…” He presses his lips together. And shrugs. “But it was nice. I’ve never gotten to feel young before. Feel what it’s like to be treated that way. I liked it. Having someone genuinely see me as young. Naive. Having someone… who wanted to take care of me.”

His heart feels like it’s crammed up in his throat.

That was too much.

That was entirely too much. He shouldn’t have said any of it. It wasn’t necessary.

And now, he’s trembling. Actually trembling, from head to toe.

And Julien…

Julien looks at him. Holds his gaze. For what feels like several minutes, but is probably only a few seconds. He stares at Magnus. Expression unreadable (and Magnus _hates_ that there’s someone who can ever be unreadable to him).

And then, Julien sighs. Loudly. Letting it deflate his whole body.

And he sits on the edge of the bed, a few feet away from Magnus.

Everything gets quiet. It’s not just that they aren’t shouting anymore, it’s a deeper quality. It’s in the air. It’s like the whole room is hushed.

The whole room is tired.

And, oddly enough, it’s the first moment where Magnus realizes just how strange it is to be having a fight like this, while they’re both still completely naked. In any other context, he’d laugh.

As it is, he just sits down next to Julien. Making sure to leave a good few inches of bed between them. Not wanting to push.

After another minute or two of this odd, tired silence, Julien breathes out. Like a laugh, but without enough sound. “A warlock,” he says with quiet disbelief. Almost like he finally sees the humor in it. Almost.

“A werewolf,” Magnus replies, matching his tone. And he lets out a weak chuckle. “God, the amount of trouble we could have saved ourselves.”

Julien shakes his head, but somehow Magnus can tell that it’s in agreement.

This whole time. Two downworlders. It’s actually…

It’s actually rather nice. It’s been a long time since Magnus has been with a downworlder. No, what he has with Julien doesn’t feel like really _being_ with someone, but still. It’s been half a year now. With a fellow downworlder. That’s certainly something. And-

Oh.

Magnus looks over at Julien.

It’s not a topic he should bring up. He knows that.

But this is already so far out of their usual spectrum of conversation. Maybe the rules don’t apply, tonight.

Besides, at this point, how could things possibly get any worse?

Magnus swallows, trying to clear his throat.

“Your wife?” he prompts, as gently as possible.

Julien’s thumb immediately tucks in toward his finger. Immediately starts running across his ring. Possibly a reflex, possibly just a habit.

After a moment, he nods.

A werewolf, then.

Magnus hasn’t brought her up in over a month. Possibly two, by now. He hasn’t mentioned her since he finally snapped and confronted Julien about her. Julien had never mentioned her before that night. And he hasn’t mentioned her since.

But still, with this new information, Magnus has to know.

“And, the accident?”

Julien’s head… twists, somehow. His chin falls down toward his chest, but he lifts it quickly, and turns away from Magnus. His jaw is tense.

“Shadowhunters.”

Ah. Magnus honestly wishes he could find that surprising. The word ‘accident’ had seemed suspiciously vague when Julien used it before. Magnus had known right away that there was something Julien wasn't willing to tell him. But this…

Magnus isn’t sure if knowing the truth is any better.

Julien takes a breath, opens his mouth-

He stops himself. And turns back to Magnus. “Luzia?”

Magnus should have seen that coming. If he asked about Julien’s wife, it only makes sense that Julien would ask about Luzia.

But that doesn’t make it any easier to hear her name. It's not any less of a shock to hear someone else say it to him.

Magnus clears his throat. Shakes himself out of his… whatever it is he’s feeling. “No. She was a mundane.”

And, of course, Magnus knows Julien’s next question before he can ask it.

“When did she die?”

Magnus looks at the floor - though he can still _feel_ Julien looking at him. “Forty-nine years ago.” He forces himself to chuckle. Forces himself to smile, a bit. Forces his voice to be light. “It’ll be fifty in June.”

Which means that Julien's  _next_ question will be-

“How long were you together?”

Magnus takes a tired breath. “Forty-five years.” He smiles, but this time it’s almost genuine. “As I said, not nearly long enough.”

 _“Christ,_ ” Julien whispers.

And Magnus laughs. It sounds a bit… wetter, weaker than he’d like. But it gets his point across. “And now you feel guilty, because you’ve been so _smug_ this whole time, thinking that your loss was so much worse than mine.” He glances up from the floor.

Julien doesn’t do contrition. Magnus has never seen him even come close to it. But the look on his face now, that’s probably his best attempt. He shrugs, _almost_ apologetically. “Well, I was married for twenty-one years, and you were barely even that old. Logically, you couldn’t have been with Luzia for more than a few years.”

“When actually, it turns out that I was with her for longer than you’ve been alive.” Magnus smirks. “I know, it’s hard to believe that anything is older than _you_.”

Julien rolls his eyes rather spectacularly. But he’s… he’s sort of smiling a little, too.

It’s quiet again. A few more minutes pass in the same deep, thick silence.

And, again, Julien is the one who eventually breaks it. “Two hundred years,” he says softly.

Magnus sighs. “Something like that.”

Julien shakes his head. “Aren’t you tired?”

It’s-

It’s almost enough to make Magnus laugh. People don’t usually ask that. He's not sure anyone has _ever_ asked that before. It's not the normal reaction. It’s not the type of question that Magnus has come to expect. But…

“Yes. Always.”

He wonders if he should specify, if he should point out that-

No. They don’t do that. They don’t say things like that to each other.

But he looks at Julien, and Julien is already looking at him. And the expression on his face…

Well. Maybe Magnus doesn’t need to say it out loud for Julien to understand what he means.

Julien presses his lips together, like he’s wetting them with his tongue. It’s a little nervous habit of his. A rare one, yes. But still, it’s something Magnus has seen before. “Does it ever… get any easier?”

Something… twists, in Magnus’s chest. Sharply.

That’s new. He’s never heard Julien sound so small. Uncertain. He’s never heard Julien really _ask_ him something. Particularly not something like this.

Julien’s never looked to Magnus for comfort before.

It’s an odd moment. It’s too honest for them. Magnus suddenly seems so old. And Julien suddenly seems so young.

And, somehow, the answer ends up being just as surprising as the question. “Yes, it does,” Magnus says - and it’s a little shocking to realize how _easy_ it is to say it. If he hadn’t been asked, he doesn’t think he would consider _that_ to be his answer. But now, actually thinking about it, actually giving the answer to someone else… “It certainly isn’t _easy._ But it is easier.” He smirks. “Hell, by now, I’m practically a functional person again.”

Julien laughs, like he’s caught off-guard by that. “That’s encouraging. Knowing I’ll be _functional_ again.” He leans back a bit. Puts his hands behind him on the bed. “And it’ll only take me another forty years to get there.”

Magnus scoffs. “Don’t be so dramatic. It’s only been three years for you, and look how far you’ve come. You’re already doing significantly better than I was. After she died, I swear it took me a _decade_ just to get out of bed.” He waits a moment. Waits for Julien to meet his gaze. “You’ll be fine. You _know_ you’ll be fine.”

Julien frowns. “That’s…”

“What?”

“No, it’s just…” Julien shakes his head. “You sound so wise, all of a sudden. Are you _wise,_ Maggie?”

Magnus smiles. “I’m old. I can’t help it.”

Julien smiles back at him, but only for a moment. Then he gets that same look again. The one that’s unsure, and oddly vulnerable. “It might… I think it might take a while. For me to get used to that.”

Magnus doesn’t know _why,_ but the first thing he feels is… relief. It’s not as though it ever seemed like Julien was going to say he didn’t want to see him again. They fight about everything, and none of it has ever been bad enough for them to end things. End whatever this is. This fight theoretically shouldn’t be any different. Magnus never feels relieved when their other fights end.

But this time, he does.

Julien takes a breath-

And Magnus knows what he’s going to say. It’s been half a year, after all. Julien doesn’t always say it in the same _type_ of situation, but he always says it. And Magnus has gotten very good at predicting when. It’s something about the breath Julien takes before. The subtle change in his expression. Magnus can always tell when it’s coming.

“I don’t love you, you know.”

It’s odd. At face value, it’s a cold statement. Blatantly so. Downright rude, even. It’s not something anyone should want to hear, particularly not from someone in their current situation. It’s distancing. It’s cold.

So Magnus has no idea why it’s become so comforting to him. Why hearing it makes him smile. Why it makes him feel… warm.

“Of course you don’t,” he says, just like he always does. “Why would you?”

Julien looks at him. He’s not smiling, but there’s something in his expression that communicates the same thing. Magnus doesn’t know what it is. But there’s… something.

And then his expression falls. He suddenly looks rather concerned. “How are you feeling? We sort of… skipped that part.”

Oh.

Right.

They certainly did skip that. Honestly, after all of that, the sex feels so distant. Like it didn’t even happen tonight. Magnus’s mind has been so distracted that his body hasn’t had the chance to register what he’s feeling.

“I’m fine,” he says, more as a reflex than an actual answer. He stretches a bit, tests his limbs, makes sure he’s _actually_ fine. “Nothing unusual. A little sore. _Very_ sleepy. Cold.”

That snaps Julien out of the conversation, damn near instantly. Everything else vanishes, and he’s all business again. He stands up, starts to take a step away. “Here-”

“Um,” Magnus sheepishly grabs Julien’s elbow to stop him. “Allow me?”

Two robes appear. One, in Magnus’s hands. And the other, slung over Julien’s shoulders.

Julien flinches at the unexpected appearance. It’s like it takes him a moment to realize what’s happened. And then-

He slowly turns to Magnus. Eyes narrowed. Jaw tense. “The amount of _shit_ I’ve done for you-”

“I have _always_ offered to do things for myself,” Magnus retorts. “You always insist; I don’t want to be rude.”

“Well if I had known how little effort it would take!” Julien scoffs as he practically punches his arms into the sleeves.

Magnus holds up one hand. “Excuse me, did I ever say that I _wasn’t_ going to use magic? No. No I did not. You just assumed.”

Julien laughs. It comes too suddenly out of his mocking anger, so it’s a strange sound.

But more than that, it’s nice.

Magnus stands up, shifting the robe in his hands to find the shoulders. He gets it opened, gets it ready to slip on-

Julien takes it from him. And he steps in, close. He holds up the robe behind Magnus, holds it open for him, so all Magnus has to do is reach his hands back into the sleeves. And Julien pulls it up his arms for him. Gently gets it situated over his shoulders. Follows the line of the lapel with his hands. Pulls it closed around Magnus’s chest.

And…

He stands there. With his hands fisted in the front of Magnus’s robe. Pressed to Magnus’s chest. Standing. So terribly, _terribly_ close.

It takes Magnus a few tries to remember how to breathe.

He’s not sure how long they stand there. Inches apart. Maybe less. Just… looking at each other.

And suddenly, Magnus feels the weight of it. Of what just happened. Of everything that’s… there. Everything they have.

Julien’s eyes drop down for a moment. Down to Magnus’s lips. Before snapping back up to his eyes. “You should…” he clears his throat. “You should get some sleep.”

Yes.

He should.

Magnus knows he should.

After all this time, Magnus has come to enjoy spending the night here. Down the hall. Around the corner, first door on the left. A guest room. The one that he’s started to think of as _his._ It had taken some time, but now he genuinely likes it. Having his own space. His own space in Julien’s home. Getting some time alone, time to himself, time to decompress from what they’ve just done. It feels oddly… permanent. Magnus has a presence here.

He has his own room.

“Yes,” Magnus says, as soon as he can make his voice work. “That sounds nice.”

Seconds pass.

Minutes pass.

Neither of them move.

Julien’s hands are still clutching Magnus’s robe. Still against Magnus’s chest. Still… holding Magnus to him.

And they’re still looking at each other.

It’s…

Magnus blinks.

What is he supposed to do with this?

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original author's notes can be found [here.](http://my-nameless-bliss.tumblr.com/post/156203596691)


	11. Love

Luzia is on his back.

Her arms around his neck, her thighs pressed against his waist, held up in his hands, her skirts all bunched up in his arms, her wildly curly hair loose and constantly blowing right into his face.

They must have been walking for over an hour now. She’s _long_ since said that he can put her down, that she can walk for herself, that she didn’t really _need_ to be carried in the first place. But he doesn’t mind. It’s not as though it’s any strain to carry her.

And besides, it’s chillier than they’d anticipated. And she’s so warm against his back. His hands. His face, as she keeps pressing her cheek to his, keeps exhaling hot breath behind his ears.

They’d been hoping for sunshine to keep them warm today, but as far as Magnus is concerned, this is just as good. Possibly better.

They don’t have a destination today. Well, it’s not as though they have a destination on _most_ days, but it’s even less so today. Magnus isn’t even entirely sure where they are, to be honest. He thinks they’re still in Corinth. They were in Corinth yesterday, and he doesn’t think they’ve traveled far enough to really get anywhere else.

Then again, they’ve been following the path of mountains, not city lines. Are there mountains in Corinth? Maybe they’re already long gone by now. For all Magnus knows, they might not even be in Greece anymore. He hasn’t been paying attention, and god knows Luzia hasn’t either. If they end up getting too horrifically lost, Magnus is sure he can magic up a solution. Preemptively worrying about trivial details like that would just spoil the fun.

Luzia shifts a little. And with much difficulty, she starts attempting to weasel her hands inside Magnus’s shirt, through the neckline.

“Can I help you with something?” he asks, trying to sound lighthearted even with her arms pressed against his throat.

“My hands are cold.” She flubs her lips. “Should have brought my gloves after all.”

Magnus’s first impulse is to retrieve them for her. Usually he leaves everything in the place they last stayed, then summons it up when they settle somewhere new. But he could probably remember the contents of her trunk well enough to conjure up a pair of gloves. At the very least, he knows he can bring her _something_ warm to bundle her hands in. A shawl, or an extra scarf. But-

Hm.

He certainly _could_ do that.

But it would be so much more fun to take this as an opportunity to show off a bit. He does _love_ showing off for her, after all.

“Hold out your hands.”

It sounds like a fairly ominous request, once he’s said it. But Luzia just hums happily against his cheek, immediately untucks her hands from Magnus’s clothing, and sticks them out (rather inelegantly) in front of them.

Magnus slows down his pace a bit, making sure he can concentrate enough to be perfectly careful-

And a blue flame flickers to life, floating an inch or so above Luzia’s left palm. She gasps - practically right in his ear - and it’s a bright, _delighted_ sound.

It’s not much. The fire could fit inside a teacup. And while it sways and flickers in the cold breeze, it doesn’t really crackle or _burn_ like a normal flame would. But, still. It should be more than enough to warm her hands.

Luzia brings her other hand closer to the flame, and Magnus can feel that her mouth is hanging open. “Can I touch it?” she asks eagerly.

“What? No!” Magnus’s face scrunches up. “It’s _fire._ Don’t touch fire.”

Luzia makes a dismissive noise. “Well I don’t know! I thought maybe it was some sort of magic fire. Touchable magic fire. It sounds perfectly reasonable.”

Magnus laughs. “I suppose it does.” He chews the inside of his lip for a moment. “Come to think of it, I’m fairly sure I’d be able to figure that out.” He’d only have to change a few details. Rather _important_ details, but he bets he could do it. It’s not as though he has any other strenuous magical plans in the near future. And Luzia has always loved being involved with his magic, in any way she can.

Luzia gasps again, but it’s quiet this time. Gentle. It’s that soft, almost painfully excited tone she uses when she’s presented with something new.

And after a moment, she turns her face in toward Magnus’s. Presses her forehead against his temple. Smiles against his cheek. “Magnus, my dearest, will you make a fire I can touch?”

Magnus smiles. It’s only been four months, but he wonders how many times he’s already been asked questions just like this one. But however many it is, he knows for a fact that he has answered every single one of them the same way. “Luzia, my joy, I would love to.”

Luzia kisses his cheek. And she makes it loud, and messy, and adorably overzealous. Still holding that little blue flame above her hand.

Touchable fire. Yes, he’s sure he can do it. Honestly, it’s a rather useful concept. It probably wouldn’t be able to actually burn anything, but it’d be very convenient for warmth. Maybe-

“I love you,” Luzia says quietly.

And Magnus damn near drops her.

It takes a second, but he manages to stop himself, and set her down gently instead. But when he turns to face her, the only thing he can get out of his mouth is a weak, “Wh-what?”

Luzia’s expression is wide and open with confusion. “What?” she repeats after him, though her voice is somewhat stronger. “You look surprised.”

Magnus opens his mouth, but he has nothing to say. He doesn’t quite remember how words work. It’s like he’s forgotten what language they’re speaking. “I…” he can’t make the right sounds. Can’t communicate that the reason he looks surprised is that… he _is_ surprised.

After another few moments of this odd, strained silence, Luzia’s eyes get a bit wider. “Oh, should I not have said that?” She puts a hand to her chin, fingers just barely touching her lower lip. “I’m sorry. I thought you already knew.”

Magnus chokes on a noise. A laugh, maybe? A weak, startled sort of laugh.

Luzia doesn’t laugh. She just keeps looking at him. She looks like she’s still somewhat concerned that she said the wrong thing, but more than that, she looks…

Earnest. She looks like she means this.

She means this.

She…

Magnus hasn’t even _thought_ about-

Well. Maybe he’s thought about it a bit.

Maybe he’s thought about it quite a lot.

It's actually been… it’s been catching him up lately. Confusing him. For a few weeks, perhaps even longer.

Because she makes him feel. She’s made him feel so much over these few months. She’s made him remember how to feel, remember that he _can_ feel. That it’s something he’s allowed to do. He’s remembered so many feelings that he thought he’d never be able to have again.

But this is different. This is… new. A completely new feeling.

When was the last time he felt something new?

It’s why he hasn’t said anything yet. Well, it’s one of the reasons, anyway. There was also his worry about introducing something that _intense_ into their relationship, his fear of scaring her off for good. His concern that it’s too early. His concern that it wouldn’t be reciprocated.

And, perhaps most of all, his fear that he’s somehow… wrong. That this isn’t love at all. That he doesn’t _know_ what he’s feeling. It’s been well over a hundred years, after all. He’s felt everything. He’s been convinced for quite some time now that he has known every possible feeling there is. He’s known it, and forgotten it, and remembered it. He’s so used to knowing.

He’s forgotten what it’s like to actually feel something new.

But now, with Luzia…

She’s never felt this before, either. And now, here she is, and-

And she’s so goddamn certain of it that she thinks it’s obvious enough for Magnus to have known it, without her even having to say anything.

And if she’s so confident, if she trusts this _so much…_

Maybe she can be confident enough for both of them.

Luzia’s hand is still pressed to her chin. Magnus gently puts his hand on hers, and pulls it away, holding her hand close to his chest instead. And he touches her face. Like he’s doubtlessly done hundreds of times before, but it somehow still manages to feel… new. Perhaps that’s because he’s about to say something new. Something he’s never said before. Not like this.

He brushes his fingers across her cheek. Squeezes her hand a bit tighter. Smiles. “I love you too.”

Luzia frowns. Just enough to get a little crease between her furrowed eyebrows. She still looks so _horribly_ earnest. “Yes, I already knew that.”

Magnus rolls his eyes, but it doesn’t keep him from laughing. Loud, and wonderfully easy. “Alright, come on.” He ducks enough to get hold of her waist, and easily slings her over his shoulder.

Luzia shrieks out a combination of laughter and surprise, but she doesn’t actually protest as Magnus sets off again down their makeshift path. She just sighs grandly, arms dangling limply by Magnus’s legs. After a minute or two, she lets out a little huff. “Magnus.”

“Yes, darling?”

Luzia laughs at his light tone. “Are you going to put me down?”

Magnus hums. “Maybe in a few minutes.”

“Well, fine,” Luzia says, in that alarmingly mischievous way of hers.

And she starts pushing at the back of Magnus’s clothes. Magnus flinches a little as her cold hands manage to find their way to the bare skin of his lower back. She must be trying to warm them up again-

Oh, no. Magnus knows where this is going.

And he just barely keeps himself from letting out an embarrassing little noise of surprise as Luzia shoves her cold hands right down the back of Magnus’s trousers.

 

 

Julien is fucking him.

Well, perhaps that word is a little too harsh for this. Yes, Julien technically _is_ fucking him, but it’s…

Hm. It’s soft. It’s slow. It’s so deliciously easy.

It’s always like this, the night after the full moon. Magnus still thinks it would be easier for them to not bother doing anything on these nights, but Julien always asks him. So sincerely. It’s an unfortunate situation, really. It’s the one night every month where Julien is physically exhausted, but also in desperate need of physical affection.

It’s not like what they do on any other night. It’s simple, and gentle. It started naturally, after they’d already settled in for bed. It hadn’t required any sort of discussion or plan. It had just… happened.  

Julien presses into him slowly, thrusts as deep as he can. And he stays there, breathing too heavily against Magnus’s cheek.

One of Magnus’s hands is tangled together with Julien’s, somewhere underneath the pillows. And he reaches his other hand over his head, pushing against the headboard, using the leverage to lift his hips, trying to get more. He wraps one of his legs around Julien’s waist-

And he laughs as his foot gets tangled in the sheet that’s covering their bodies. Still, he manages to get his leg hitched around Julien as securely as possible. It’s not much of an improvement, but he does his best to pull himself up, to fuck himself on Julien’s cock while Julien holds still over him.

(Magnus has already offered at least a _dozen_ times to change positions, to situate themselves some way where Magnus is the one doing more of the work - even if it’s only for a little while. Anything to give Julien a _hint_ of a break. But Julien has insisted, every time, that he wants to stay like this. That he wants to stay this close. And, well, Magnus doesn’t have the heart to deny him that. This is such a lovely position, after all. With Julien’s weight on him. Julien stopping every few moments to kiss Magnus so sweetly that he can feel it all the way in the soles of his feet. All of Julien’s moans and breaths and filthy whispers being whimpered right against Magnus’s mouth, or into his ear. Julien’s hand, clutching his - Magnus has developed an unexpected fondness for holding hands like this. Yes, regardless of the extra strain on Julien’s poor body, Magnus can’t _really_ complain about the position.)

Julien takes over again, fucking Magnus slow and _deep_ \- so deep that Magnus can’t help but let out a little cry with every goddamn thrust.

“Jules,” Magnus manages to breathe out, before gasping in another weak breath. He takes his hand away from the headboard and slips it under the sheet. And…

He takes a breath.

He feels the sweat on Julien’s shoulder. Traces down the shape of his spine. Scratches lightly across his lower back (and has to bite his lip to keep himself from making an undignified noise when Julien _groans_ in response). And then, slowly, carefully, he brushes his hand along Julien’s side. Along the deep, uneven scar. Running from Julien’s lower back, around his side, and down onto his left hip. A single claw mark. The scar still thick and pronounced, even though it’s been almost thirty years since he’d gotten it. Since the attack that had turned him.

Julien shudders at the touch. It sounds like it’s a struggle for him to catch his breath, but somehow, it’s like that just makes him try harder, try fucking Magnus with more force.

And even though that’s enough to make him _writhe_ beneath Julien, Magnus still can’t help but want him to relax more. “Jules,” he whimpers again…

But he forgets all the other words. Julien thrusts into him _particularly_ nicely, and Magnus can’t remember any words at all except, “Fuck, _fuck-_ ah, Jules…”

Well, maybe he can at least distract him for a minute.

Magnus nudges his face against Julien’s. Tries to draw him into a kiss.

While Julien catches on easily enough, it turns out that _neither_ of them have enough breath to really commit to much kissing. It’s mostly gasping, with the occasional brush of their lips.

Still, it’s enough to slow Julien down again. He stays where he is, buried so _wonderfully_ deep inside Magnus, just barely shifting and rocking his hips. He breaks away from Magnus’s mouth, brings his lips to Magnus’s ear.

“I love you, Maggie,” he whispers.

Magnus doesn’t have words to describe the sound that wrings out of his throat.

Did-

Did he-

Magnus wonders if he misheard him. If in all this heat, all this intensity, he managed to mishear a few words whispered directly into his ear.

Because they don't…

They don’t say that.

They’ve never said it. Not once. They’ve never even come close. No near slip-ups, no gentler euphemisms. Nothing.

It’s been four years.

Four years since they met. Damn near four years since they started whatever this is.

Whatever this _was._ What it was when they’d first started. It’s become so many different things over the years, after all. What they have now is different from what they’d had before. But still, it’s not…

It’s something they know. Something they _both_ know. For the past handful of months. Almost since they’d started living together. They haven’t acknowledged it, but somehow, they know.

They know. But they don’t say it.

And Julien…

Julien pulls back, just a bit. Enough to see Magnus’s face. Still moving inside him. Still grasping his hand.

It’s been four years. Magnus assumed that if they’d made it this long without saying it, without acknowledging it, then they never would.

It’s been so long since he’s heard it. Even if he’s felt it, it’s been a lifetime - an actual mortal lifetime - since anyone actually said to him. And-

And hearing it again is… rather nice.

Magnus lifts his hand. Runs his fingers through Julien’s hair. Rests his hand on the back of his head.

And he smiles. “Of course you do.” He lets out a sound that would be a laugh, if he had more breath. “And I love you.”

Julien smiles down at Magnus, but only for a moment. Then, he’s kissing him again. Kissing him, and fucking him, and-

Oh.

Loving him.

It's…

It doesn’t feel new. It doesn’t feel different. Magnus doesn’t feel the slightest bit different with Julien now than he has for the past few months. Because he’s loved him for quite some time.

He’s loved Julien, and Julien has loved him.

He smiles into the kiss.

He _loves_ Julien, and Julien loves him.

Magnus honestly isn’t sure if it’s a truly important distinction. If it’s important that they’ve acknowledged it. If it should really matter.

But regardless, Magnus thinks he likes it.

Regardless, it’s rather nice.

 

 

Camille is curling her hair.

Magnus has never understood how anyone can look so beautiful while curling their hair. By itself, it’s ridiculous. Sitting tirelessly in front of her mirror, tying up her hair into inelegant little bows. He knows the results will be _exquisite_ when she wakes up and styles her hair for the night - the long, dark, _perfect_ ringlets - but the actual process has always had a distinct lack of allure, as far as Magnus is concerned.

Until Camille, that is.

It’s quite distracting, really. The long, graceful stretch of her arms, at seemingly impossible angles. Fast, fluid movements. Confident to an unreasonable extent. Never a moment or a strand out of place. It’s as though her hair is afraid of disobeying her. Everything about it is gorgeous, in a way Magnus has never seen before.

Well, he has to admit that there’s a _small_ chance that it has something to do with the fact that Camille is currently wearing Magnus’s necklace, and absolutely _nothing_ else. Camille does nothing by half-measures. If she’s going to let Magnus watch her do something as intimate as preparing her hair for bed, she’s going to make sure she _really_ gives him something to see.

And it’s perfect. Everything is perfect, down to the very angle. The back of her chair blocks most of his view from behind, except her shoulders, and her legs - crossed delicately at the ankle.

But he can see her reflection in the mirror. Her face, with her eyes so intent and focused, but the rest of her expression slack, like this is trivial enough to be a bore. Her neck, framed by what little loose hair is left. The line of the silver necklace. The way the ruby rests so _perfectly_ against her chest. The way she manages to just barely brush a hand across her breast every single time she reaches for a new section of hair (she means it to be subtle, no doubt, but there’s a goddamn _smirk_ hidden in her expression that might as well be hitting Magnus upside the head with her intention to entice him).

She reaches across herself to start another curl, and her thumb makes a circle around one of her nipples that is _far_ too egregious to be unintentional - or decent, for that matter.

As if to confirm her intentions, she meets Magnus’s gaze in the mirror. To her credit, she doesn’t go so far as to blatantly wink at him. But she quirks an eyebrow, which certainly manages to communicate the same thing.

Magnus laughs, because what else can he do? Only Camille would use something as _boring_ as curling her hair as an excuse to seduce him. She’s been at it for half an hour now, and it had been perfectly innocent when she’d started. She’s clearly getting antsy, because this shameless enticement has only been going on for a few minutes.

But he can’t give in.

Not yet, anyway. When they settle in for the day, he’s fairly certain that he wants to make her come at least three times before they even think about sleeping.

But for now, they’re both still busy. Camille still has at least five curls’ worth of hair left loose.

And Magnus is working.

Magnus is working.

Magnus is trying to work.

But honestly, he’s not sure he can handle this much longer. He feels like he’s been reading requests and proposals for several days without stopping (really, it’s been less than an hour, but he feels like being dramatic right now). He has several piles at his feet, strewn around the carpet around his armchair. A pile of jobs he knows he’d take. A pile of jobs he’d consider - but only for a stupid amount of money. And a pile of jobs he wouldn’t want to take if his very life depended on it.

All from shadowhunters.

All wanting to violate the accords.

They’ve only been in place for a handful of months, and still, it seems like all of nephilim society has decided that Magnus’s only purpose in life is to help the circumvent the brand new laws.

Cleaning up their crimes before the Clave can find them. Eradicating legal obstacles. Forging Clave sanctions to make someone ‘exempt’ from the restrictions in the accords.

There’s an entire pile of them. Magnus has been sent a _pile_ of requests from nephilim. Offering to pay him if he makes it easier for them to kill downworlders, without the law getting in their way.

He can’t remember the last time that merely receiving mail was so stressful for him.

It’s too much.

He tosses the letters aside. The whole bundle of them. Lets them fall, unopened, onto the pile of rejects.

He pinches the bridge of his nose, as hard as he can.

And he breathes.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” Camille asks, and even though Magnus isn’t looking, he can tell that she’s gotten up. That she’s walking toward him.

Magnus bites down on his lip. Breathes deeply through his nose. Works his mouth a bit.

And he forces himself to smile. He forces himself to be perfectly composed by the time he looks up at Camille. “It’s nothing. Just,” he gestures to his small island of letters, “the usual.”

Camille is close now, close enough to brush her hand across Magnus’s where it’s lying on the armrest. “Maggie-”

“Please don’t call me that,” Magnus corrects, trying to sound unaffected. Trying not to care that it must be the millionth time he’s had to correct her over the past year. Trying not to care that he knows she won’t listen, and he’ll have to correct her again tomorrow.

Camille sighs, and she-

Hm.

She sits on his lap. Situates herself in his chair, perched sideways across his thighs, with her hands resting gently on either side of his neck.

And Magnus can’t help but breathe out the tiniest moan of relief. That’s all it takes. Just having her close. Just feeling her hands on him, getting to put his hands on her waist, getting to rub his fingers against her skin. It makes everything else… fade out, for a moment. Her presence is so strong, it makes everything else seem weak.

It’s heaven.

“Magnus,” she says firmly, tipping up his chin so he has to look her in the eye, “I’ve been telling you this for weeks: stop working for them.” She cradles Magnus’s cheek in her cool palm. “It’s making you miserable. Think of how ridiculous that is. You’re making yourself miserable to please _shadowhunters._ ” She raises her eyebrows. “Stop accepting the work they’re offering.”

Magnus closes his eyes. “If I don’t accept it, someone else will-”

“So let _them_ do it. Let them be miserable instead.”

Magnus shakes his head. “You don’t understand-”

“Yes I do.” Camille presses his face a little more firmly, and waits for him to look at her again. “Magnus, you don’t have to take every job that you’re offered. Turning someone down isn’t saying that you _can’t_ do it.” She leans a bit closer to him. “Rejecting work that you don’t want to do doesn’t make you weak.”

Magnus…

Breathes.

And after a few moments, he puts his hand on top of hers. Holds it to his cheek.

How can she do this? How does she always know? Things that he’s never said, things that he’s never even _hinted,_ somehow she can always just… tell. Somehow, she always knows how to say exactly what he needs to hear.

He turns his head, closes his eyes, kisses her palm. “I love you.”

Oh-

Oh.

He hadn’t… planned to say that. He didn’t mean to say it in that moment.

Well. He supposes he was going to say it eventually. It was rather inevitable. It might as well be now.

He opens his eyes, looks back up at her.

And Camille-

Laughs.

Easy. Light. Genuinely amused.

She… laughs. And Magnus feels…

Nothing. He can _feel_ nothing. He can feel the absence. He can feel everything else drain out of him. He can feel that there’s… nothing.

Camille’s eyebrows tilt up. She looks almost…

“Sweetheart,” she says lightly, “don’t be silly.”

Magnus’s face constricts. Is it…? He hadn’t-

He doesn’t think it’s silly.

Camille keeps her hand under Magnus’s, on his cheek. And she uses her other hand to brush his hair back. Follow the line of it behind his ear. Everything, her face, her movements, her voice, it’s all unbelievably…

Gentle.

“Magnus.” She tilts her head. “That’s not for us.” She says it so plainly, calmly. Like she’s telling him something he already knows. Like it should be expected. “That’s something mortals let themselves believe, because they only have to convince themselves for a handful of years. But people like us,” she dips her head in toward his, “we know better.” And she smiles, softly. “We know that’s not real. So we don’t have to bother with pretending.”

It…

Magnus presses his lips together.

It makes sense.

Doesn’t it?

But… he’s felt- he _knows_ he’s felt…

Then again-

The only people he’s loved, _really_ loved, in that context, have been mortal. Now that he thinks about it like this, he realizes…

He’s never felt love for more than a mortal lifetime. It’s always… died. With them.

Maybe that’s just what it is. What it was. Mortal love. It didn’t last, after all. No matter what Magnus _had_ felt, it still hadn’t survived. Maybe that’s how love works. It dies. It’s not meant to last. And if it’s not meant to last…

Magnus makes himself smile. “Yes, of course.” The smile wants to falter, but he keeps it where it is. “You’re right, darling.”

Camille sighs, and she sounds oddly relieved. She nods, and-

And she kisses him. Softly.

Magnus feels something in his chest. And he thought he knew what it is. He’s thought it was one thing, for such a long time. But if it isn’t…

Well.

Maybe she’s wrong. Maybe she’ll come around, someday.

Yes. She’ll change her mind. She’ll love him. Someday. Magnus is sure of it.

He’s almost sure of it, anyway.

 

 

Etta is writing a letter.

Magnus can hardly stand how charming it is that she still writes to her sister. The habit had started when Bea moved to Europe, and of course that’s understandable enough. But now they’re living in the same goddamn apartment, and they say that the habit is so ingrained in them that they can only stand going a few days without writing to each other. Writing letters like a diary. Sliding them under each other’s bedroom doors.

It’s fucking adorable, that’s what it is.

Besides, Magnus can hardly pretend that he doesn’t understand how difficult it is to break the habit of writing to someone, once you have a year or two to get used to it. It’s horribly cathartic, even if it’s to someone Etta sees every damn day.

Well, _most_ damn days. She hasn’t seen Bea since Tuesday.

Now, it’s Saturday.

And Etta still hasn’t gone home.

Magnus smiles, and belatedly tries to cover it up by taking another sip of his coffee. It’s his, what, third cup of the morning? Fourth? He’s been sneaking them from the diner a few blocks over, so it’s easy to lose track.

For the first cup or two, he at least had an excuse. He was reading the paper. And he can’t very well read the paper without decent coffee.

But he’s combed through the entire newspaper two times over by now. Hell, he’s memorized the ads. He finished the paper _several_ cups of coffee ago.

He just doesn’t feel like leaving yet.

It’s just the two of them. In Magnus’s dining room. The table has enough room to easily seat a dozen people with plenty of elbow room. But they’ve tucked themselves into one corner. Sitting as close as possible. The legs of their chairs are pressed together. Their elbows brush whenever their arms shift on the table. Their slippered feet knock against each other’s, every few moments. A light, aimless bit of footsie.

Breakfast must have been over an hour ago. Magnus hadn’t even bothered to clear away the dishes, they just shoved them a little ways down the table.

And now it’s just Magnus, and his paper, and his endlessly-filled coffee mug.

And Etta, and her finest stationery, and the coffee that she took two sips of and then forgot.

There’s a radio on, somewhere. The living room, maybe? Magnus can hear it, but he can’t quite tell what’s playing. It’s a pleasant background noise. That, and the ticking of the grandfather clock behind him, and the scratch of Etta’s fountain pen.

God, what Magnus wouldn’t give to spend the rest of his life right here, just like this. He never wants to leave this table.

Five days. Etta’s been here for five days. That’s it. Not even a full goddamn week.

And still, it’s enough. Less than a week, and it’s-

Well. It’s certainly something.

Etta’s pen stops scratching for a few moments. Her foot goes back to tracing little circles around Magnus’s under the table. She chews absently on one of her nails.

And after a minute, she lets her hand fall to the table, with a little noise of _despair._

“Something wrong?” Magnus asks, trying not to sound too amused.

Etta’s shaking her head slowly. “I just… eugh!” She puts a hand to her chest. “Do you ever write something, and think while you’re writing it that it’s _perfectly_ fine, and then when you read it back to yourself, it's-” She frowns down at her letter. “God, it’s _awful._ ”

Magnus laughs, and turns the page of his paper. “What are you writing about?”

Etta rolls her eyes in that way that moves her whole head. “Well if you _must_ know, I happen to be talking a bit about you, Mr. Bane.”

Magnus perks up instantly (though he manages to contain most of his excitement). “Really?” he asks with what feels like a _ridiculous_ grin. “And may I ask what’s so _awful_ about that?”

Etta laughs and puts a hand to her mouth, fingers curled against her chin. Her eyes are still locked down on what she’s written. “Believe it or not, Bea’s been hounding me about the suspicious amount of time I’ve been spending with you lately.” She glances at Magnus from the corner of her eye, like she’s sharing a secret. “She has some doubts about your intentions.”

“Oh no,” Magnus says with a quiet gasp and a _loud_ grin. After all, Etta has made it perfectly clear that she doesn’t have a _shred_ of interest in sex, so Magnus and his ‘intentions’ have been perfectly chaste from the moment they met. He hopes Bea won’t begrudge her sister a bit of kissing and someone to share a bed with, seeing as there’s nothing more scandalous in their future.

Etta shakes her head, still giggling a bit. “I was explaining that I happen to be fond of your pleasant company, and your _exquisite_ house. And I swear, when I was writing it, everything was perfectly normal. But now,” she bites her lip. “I wonder if I should be worried that I’m using language this… _strong,_ about a man I’ve known for all of two weeks.”

Magnus makes a considering noise, and takes another sip of coffee. “I suppose that relies entirely on your opinion. It’s highly subjective.” He sets down his cup. “Do you think I should be worried that I’ve been madly in love with you since the night we met?”

Etta hums. “I certainly hope not, seeing as I fell in love with you by the end of our first dance.”

Magnus glances up at her. “And I fell in love with you the first time you smiled at me.”

And, quite aptly, Etta smiles at him again. That same smile. “Well,” she ducks her head, “as long as we’re on the same page, I’d say we’ve got nothing to worry about.”

“Good.” Magnus takes her hand (the one that isn't holding her pen). “Glad we got that sorted out.” And he presses a quick kiss to her knuckles.

She laughs quietly.

And she goes back to her letter.

And he goes back to his paper.

And that’s it.

But when he rests his arm on the table again, he doesn’t let go of her hand.

 

 

Alec is chopping tomatoes.

He’s been getting much better at it lately. With cooking in general, really. But particularly with this. He’s faster. He actually cuts things into relatively orderly sizes. He knows the best ways to strategically cut whatever he’s given. It’s downright impressive.

Magnus dutifully keeps stirring the noodles, making sure the boil stays even, and nothing sticks together.

It smells delicious in here.

Fuck, Magnus is hungry. He doesn’t know why he suggested they actually _cook_ an entire meal when he’s this goddamn hungry. If they’d just magicked up some take-out, they’d be out on the balcony having dessert by now.

Well, it’s a little too chilly for the balcony tonight. But still. He’s hungry. That’s the point.

Alec scrapes the cutting board into the pan. Magnus keeps stirring. Alec grabs another tomato.

God, it’s all so horribly domestic.

Oh.

Speaking of which-

“I received an offer for a job at the Chicago Institute today,” Magnus says lightly, still stirring.

“Yeah? Anything interesting?”

Magnus makes a dismissive noise. “Just a bit of work on their wards. Tighter security. You know how it goes.” He tilts his head. “But, I was thinking. The job is on Saturday, and I currently don’t have anything else planned for the weekend.” He hums. “So, I thought that instead of the usual portal-in-portal-out situation, I might drive there. Take the whole weekend. Just for a change of pace, you know.”

Alec stops chopping. “Really?”

Magnus nods. “Of course, since that’s still important, official Clave business, I’d need an official nephilim escort to accompany me. Make sure I stay in line, and whatnot.”

He glances up.

Alexander is already looking at him. With that tiny, _precious_ hint of a smile lifting one corner of his mouth.

(But it’s not just the smile, really. That’s not the only thing that’s catching Magnus’s eye tonight. It’s the foundation, that’s not _quite_ fully blended at his jawline. The eyeliner - which looks good on both of his eyes, but they don’t _quite_ match each other. The eyeshadow, a beautiful combination of colors that just aren’t put together _quite_ right. The blush, which admittedly he’s gotten perfect. It’s not much. It’s not a dramatic look. It’s soft. Subtle. But it’s a full face of makeup. And he’d done it himself. Completely by himself, without faltering, or losing his nerve, or giving in and asking Magnus to do it for him. This is all Alexander. And it’s unpracticed. And it’s imperfect. And it’s _beautiful._ )

Alexander’s smile gets a bit wider. “Like, a road trip?”

“Business trip,” Magnus corrects. And to make himself perfectly clear, he points a finger right under Alec’s nose. “You have to stress the _business_ part, or they’ll never approve it.” He gives his attention back to the stove. “I know it’s not exactly a vacation, what with the _work_ and everything. But,” he shrugs. “I thought it might be worth something. It’d definitely be new.”

Alec shifts the tomato around the cutting board. “Yeah,” he says. Quiet, but wonderfully happy. “Yeah, that sounds… nice.” He takes a breath, opens his mouth to say something else-

And he stops. Bites his lip.

Magnus smirks. “Yes?”

Alexander looks over at him. “What?”

Magnus rolls his eyes. “I’m assuming you’re going to express some sort of _disbelief_ that I have a mundane driver’s license.”

Alexander bites his lip again, but that doesn’t stop him from smiling.

God, it’s _adorable._

Alec’s head tics to one side. And he clears his throat. “Y'know, I, uh. I was gonna.” He looks pointedly back down at the tomato. “But then I heard this little voice in my head say, ‘ _Honestly,_ Alexander,’” he gives a dramatic little huff, “‘driving was _so important_ in fashionable society, blah blah blah, something about the Model T being sexy’.”

It takes every drop of Magnus’s self control to keep himself from smiling. He just lifts his chin instead. Pulls back his shoulders. “I do not sound like that.”

Alexander laughs. “No, of course not.”

Magnus still _refuses_ to let himself be amused, so he puts too much focus into stirring the noodles.

It’s a nice idea. It really is.

A weekend away. A reasonably long car trip. A night in an unreasonably nice hotel. He’ll have to refresh his memory on the best places to stop between here and Chicago. What restaurants they’ll have to try. What they’ll want to see. Not that there’ll be much time for that, but still. It’s something. Something new. Something nice.

Magnus smiles as he tries to fish out a noodle to test.

Alexander takes a sudden, loud breath.

“I- I love. You.”

Magnus’s breath leaves him. The fork slips out of his hand, and clatters down to the counter.

“What?” he asks, though his voice barely deigns to cooperate. As soon as he can get his body to _focus_ , he turns to look at Alec, and-

Oh.

His eyes are wide. His jaw is tense. One of his hands is twitching on the counter. The other is still holding the knife, halfway through an heirloom tomato. His mouth is the slightest bit agape.

Surprised.

So…

Alright.

He didn’t _mean_ to say it, then.

He didn’t mean it.

Magnus takes a deep breath. And another. He blinks. And again. And again, a little harder.

It’s fine.

A little mistake. A little slip-up. He didn’t mean it. That’s fine. It’s fine. Magnus can… he can… forget. Forget this happened. Let it be a mistake. He can…

Alec rubs his lips together.

He takes a breath, and sighs it out his nose.

And he turns to look at Magnus.

His eyes are steady. He looks… maybe a little nervous, but still… intent.

“I love you,” he says again. And it’s quieter this time. But it’s calm. Honest.

Certain.

_Oh._

Magnus had… hoped. Of course he had. But he hadn’t really _expected._ He hadn’t…

It’s been so long.

He smiles.

He tries to smile, anyway. It doesn’t really work. His face is doing too many other things. He’s blinking too hard.

He opens his mouth-

And his mind immediately tries to stop him. Immediately sends that blaring warning that he’s gotten so many times over these past months, all the times he’s come too close to saying it. The times he’s caught himself at the last second, changed the word. The times he’s started it, only to sloppily stutter out ‘like’ instead. ‘I l-like you.’ ‘I l- I care for you.’ He’s gotten so used to stopping himself.

He smiles, and this time it works. “I love you too, Alexander.”

For the briefest, most _beautiful_ moment, Alexander lights up. His whole face brightens, and lifts.

But then, as Magnus has become so horribly accustomed to, Alec’s mouth starts to move. Magnus can see it. He can actually _see_ Alec start to form the word: ‘Really?’ The same question he’s asked any time he’s been shown the slightest scrap of affection.

His lips move, already making the ‘R’. And…

He stops.

And he smiles instead.

A wide, open, _warm_ smile.

Magnus’s knees feel a little unsteady.

And then they damn near give out entirely, because Alexander sets down his knife, and puts his hand on Magnus’s cheek. It feels like there might be a little bit of tomato juice on his fingers, but Magnus certainly can’t bring himself to care.

Alexander takes a step forward. Brings himself closer. Starts to lean in.

There’s a splash. Then another, and a loud hiss. 

The noodles are boiling over.

“Shit!” Magnus lifts the pot off the stove and flicks his other hand at the flame. It instantly dims down to almost nothing.

Oh, wait.

Magnus turns the dial on the stove, trying to find a setting for the burner that somewhat matches the size he’s made the flame. Fuck. He hopes he didn’t confuse the poor stove too badly. He sets the pot back down.

But that’s it, really. The moment is over. He knows it.

And apparently Alexander knows it as well, because he laughs, and goes back to cutting up the last tomato.

So Magnus forces himself to accept it, and keeps stirring the noodles.

But after a few moments, Alec scoots a little closer. Without looking up from what he’s doing. And he bumps his hip against Magnus’s.

Magnus smiles. Lets himself laugh a bit. And bumps Alec’s hip right back.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original author's notes can be found [here](http://my-nameless-bliss.tumblr.com/post/157222516636).


	12. Catarina

Queens, NY

 

Magnus inhales. Slow. Deep. Lets the smoke fill his lungs. And he holds it there. Waits for the burn.

Eventually, he lets the flame extinguish from the tip of his thumb.

And he exhales.

He doesn’t blow in any direction, he just sort of… opens his mouth. Lets it fall out. And with his head hanging upside down off the foot of the bed, the smoke falls right into his nose before it can dissipate.

“You shouldn’t do that,” Catarina says flatly, not even looking up, “it’s bad for you.”

Magnus chuckles. “She says, as he lights up for the _third_ time since he got here.”

Catarina glances up at that, but only for a moment. Just long enough to give Magnus a quick look of surprise, and mild judgement. “So that’s where that smell’s been coming from.” She looks back down at the open textbook on the table in front of her. “I didn’t even realize you’d been here that long.”

“I’ve been here for two hours, Cat.”

Catarina makes a noise of acknowledgement. Just that. Just acknowledgement. No sort of emotion or opinion. She just keeps reading, with the textbook right under her nose, and a notebook off to the side. Her note-taking habits consist mostly of lifting chunks of text or images or diagrams right off the page and transferring them into her notebook. Sometimes she’ll twiddle her fingers and rearrange things, or add a splash of color over some of the words. Like highlighting, but much more convenient.

Magnus still doesn’t understand why she bothers with all these goddamn medical textbooks in the first place. It feels like they come out with a new one every day. And even though Catarina has been out-performing every mundane doctor for _centuries,_ she still insists on keeping up with current mundane medical practices. She barely has any free time to begin with, and she spends every last second of it studying harder than people actually in med school.

It sounds fucking exhausting, as far as Magnus is concerned.

Catarina makes another little noise as she turns a page. “You’d better be cleaning up after yourself. I don’t want you leaving that godawful ash all over my blankets. You know I hate tobacco.”

Magnus hums. “Joke’s on you, then. This one is marijuana.”

Catarina looks up again, with her nose all scrunched up and her eyebrows all furrowed and her mouth doing that horribly _judgy_ little frown of hers.

“Is there a problem?” Magnus asks sarcastically, taking another hit.

Catarina tilts her head. “No, I just didn’t realize it was suddenly nineteen sixty-seven again.” She scoffs, and looks back down at her book. “Yet here you are, getting high on my bed, while I have better things to do.”

“Oh _please._ ” Magnus laughs quietly as he exhales. “In the sixties you were getting high right along with me. And _neither_ of us wasted our time on marijuana.”

Catarina doesn’t seem amused (even though it’s the truth, dammit). “Why are you getting high in my apartment, Magnus?”

Magnus rolls his eyes. “I am _sad,_ Catarina.”

“No, you’re not. You’re horny.”

“I can be both!” Magnus snaps, with plenty of righteous indignation.

Catarina chuckles dryly - which is horribly calloused of her, really. “I still don’t understand why you’d come _here_ with your boy troubles. You know you don’t come to me for relationship help.”

Magnus frowns. “Really? That sounds _exactly_ like something I’d do.”

“No,” Catarina laughs again. “If you wanted _real_ relationship advice, you’d go to Luke. If you wanted to watch romcoms and bitch about your problems with someone who’d be sympathetic, you’d go to Tessa. But you came here. Which means that on some subconscious level, you _wanted_ someone to tell you to shut the fuck up and get over yourself.”

Magnus is silent for a moment. Processing that.

Because…

Because she’s right.

Dammit.

But it’s not like he’d ever _admit_ as much.

He sniffs. “Surely I’d go to Ragnor if I wanted that.”

Catarina smiles down at her notebook. “No, you’d go to Ragnor if you wanted the door slammed in your face the moment you said the word ‘Romance’.”

Magnus sighs bitterly. And takes another hit.

Fuck.

He didn’t want her to be so _logical_ about this. That’s definitely not why he’s here.

Though he has to admit, she does have a point. He did know this would happen. He doesn’t go to Catarina to complain. She doesn’t tolerate whining. Maybe he shouldn’t have bothered. Maybe he should-

No. No, he still wants to be petty. Just for a bit. He wants to lie on Catarina’s bed and get high and complain about cute boys and not care about how pathetic that makes him.

Hm.

Catarina’s right. It _is_ just like the sixties, all over again.

“I’ve never understood why you’ve always put so much energy into complaining, anyway,” Catarina says, her voice a bit too light to be sincere. “It’s downright sad. And I don’t see how it’s necessary in the first place. Your romantic exploits have always been one of the _least_ embarrassing parts of your life, from what I can tell.”

Magnus’s face twists up, in what he can only hope is an appropriately offended expression. “I’m sorry, are we forgetting the time I got dumped by a seventy-five-year-old? I still haven’t recovered from the shame of that.”

“The circumstances of that break-up were far more complicated than that, and you know it,” Catarina recites, like an automatic response. Well-rehearsed.

Magnus scoffs. “Tell that to my ego.”

“I’ve _been_ telling that to your ego for a hundred and fifty years now.”

Magnus-

Well.

Admittedly, he doesn’t have a comeback for that.

So for the lack of a better option, he just rolls his eyes.

And then he remembers that she isn’t actually looking at him, so he makes an inarticulate noise of annoyance for her benefit, holding the joint between his lips.

There’s silence. Second after second. Minute after minute. It feels like it could be several _hours_ for Magnus. Just lying on Catarina’s bed. With his head hanging off over the edge. Hearing Catarina flip a page every now and then. Hearing the generic noises of traffic on the street outside the building and footsteps shuffling in the apartment above them and a pigeon or two cooing on the windowsill.

More seconds pass.

More minutes pass.

The blood rushing to Magnus’s head starts to get uncomfortable. But he can’t be bothered to move. So he just uses a bit of magic to force his blood to flow like it’s supposed to.

He inhales again…

And goddammit, shouldn’t he be feeling a little _more_ than this by now? Honestly, he’s never envied any aspect of mundane existence, but times like these he sincerely hopes all those humans appreciate just how easily they’re affected by things like this. For fuck’s sake, Magnus is already over halfway through his joint and it’s like his body can’t even tell he’s smoking _anything_.

More seconds pass.

Magnus exhales. And he does it with a loud, long, borderline-petulant sigh.

“ _Fine,_ ” Catarina snaps. “You can tell me what happened last night.” She looks up at him. “But I’m only going to give you seventy percent of my attention.”

Magnus hums. That’s not bad. It’s a majority, after all.

Catarina flicks her hand over her notebook, and Magnus can see ink swirling across the page.

He closes his eyes. Smiles to himself, just a little.

“He spent the night.”

Catarina makes a small sound of surprise. “Then I fail to see what the problem is.”

“On the _couch,_ Catarina,” Magnus says sharply. “He spent the night on the couch.”

And for some cruel reason, she laughs at him. “And let me guess, after he drifted off, you _lovingly_ draped a blanket over him before retreating to your bedroom, all by your lonely self.”

Magnus presses his lips together. And for the sake of his dignity, he elects to not respond.

But silence must be enough of an answer, because Catarina just laughs harder. “Oh _god,_ it’s worse than I thought.” She flips another page, but with a bit more vigor than before. “Did you make him breakfast, or did you just give in and portal him to a little Parisian cafe for the morning?”

Magnus scoffs. “I’ll have you know that I did _neither._ ” But there’s not much point in lying right now, even to maintain his pride. “He left before I woke up.” He knows damn well that he would have made a _stupidly_ extravagant breakfast if he’d had the chance. Something romantic, and horrifically cliched. Crepes, probably. With strawberries shaped like little hearts.

Catarina is infuriatingly _still_ chuckling at her textbook. “And I’m sure he left you a beautiful, heartfelt note, and a dozen roses.”

Magnus puts the joint to his lips again. “He did not leave me any flowers.”

The note, however…

Magnus smiles as he inhales.

Catarina must have made the correct inference, because she makes a noise of exaggerated disgust. “I know you’ve always been a romantic, but when the fuck did you get so _pathetic_ about it?”

“Luke almost _died_ last night, Catarina,” Magnus snaps. “I think I have the right to be a little emotionally vulnerable when one of my best friends almost dies right in front of me.” He huffs - just a bit more dramatically than he’d intended. “It was a difficult night. I was needy. Alexander happened to be there, and I think that is a valid combination of factors to make me a little… sappier than usual.”

“And yet you insist that nothing happened?”

Magnus groans. “ _Nothing_ happened.”

Catarina hums. Pointedly. “No offense, love, but after the _extensive_ amount of whining you’ve been doing about this boy, I find it somewhat difficult to believe that you had him in your apartment for an entire night and didn’t make a single move.” She raises an eyebrow.

Magnus takes a breath. Opens his mouth.

And he closes it. And sighs out, with his lips tight, letting them flub a little.

“There was nothing. Absolutely nothing.” He sighs again, just for good measure, just to make sure she _really_ understands the sincerity of his disappointment. “We just talked. Had a few drinks.” He smiles. “Well, _I_ had a few drinks. He politely pretended to sip his martini so I wouldn’t be offended by how much he hated it.”

God, the way Alec’s nose scrunched up every time he took a sip. The way he pursed his lips. The little squint in his eyes. The combination of disgust and embarrassment. How quickly he tried to hide the expression as soon as he noticed Magnus looking at him.

Fuck. _Fuck._ Magnus feels his heart twisting a little in his chest. The blood it sends out is warmer than it should be. Magnus feels warm.

It’s pathetic.

He shakes his head. “That’s all it was. Talking. Sitting on the couch with a _horrifically_ platonic amount of distance between us. There was no contact. What. So. Ever.”

Well, technically, there was-

No. Magnus can’t tell her that.

Can he?

He probably… should. Just in the interest of full disclosure.

Magnus sighs. “I tried to play footsie with him.” He closes his eyes. Does his best not to frown. “He thought his feet were in my way. He apologized, and moved over.”

Catarina makes a noise that’s somewhere between a scoff and a groan of disgust. “You’ve certainly picked a real winner this time,” she says in an unnecessarily _snarky_ voice. “Everything you’ve told me about this boy and I _still_ don’t understand what all the fuss is about.” She spares a moment to glare over at him. “Which is saying something, since you absolutely refuse to shut up about him. We’ve never even met and I’m already sick to death of him”

Magnus rolls his eyes. “Yes, god forbid I actually like someone and have the _audacity_ to talk to my best friend about it. And here I thought you’d be happy for me.”

“Why the fuck would I be happy about having to hear you wax poetic about a _Lightwood_ for days on end? What about that scenario is enjoyable for me?”

Magnus-

Fuck.

He doesn’t have a comeback for that. That’s twice in one afternoon. This is ridiculous.

So he just makes another petulant noise around his joint. “I _like_ him, Cat. It’s-” he stops. His face constricts. He looks up at the ceiling (which happens to be the floor). “It’s been a long time. Isn’t that worth something?”

“Magnus,” Catarina says, and she sounds oddly _stern_ about it, “you have liked a rather impressive number of people. And an impressive number of those people were assholes. You ‘liked’ _Camille._ By now you must have realized that your liking someone isn’t exactly a glowing character recommendation.”

Magnus wants to be offended by that.

 _God,_ Magnus wants to be offended by that.

But she’s right. Again.

He hates when she’s right. Particularly about things like this. About him.

“This isn’t the same,” he says quietly. As an argument, it’s pathetically weak. But for right now, it’s all he has.

Catarina doesn’t seem very convinced. She just flips another page, with that same sharp, harsh movement. “Really? So the _dozens_ of times we’ve had this exact same conversation over the years are just, what, a long string of coincidences?”

Magnus sets his jaw. “Yes.”

“Please,” Catarina scoffs. “This boy hardly seems out of the ordinary.”

Magnus takes another hit. Holds the smoke in his lungs as long as he possibly can. It’s the smoke, and the blood rushing to his head, and the fuzziness slowly creeping everywhere else, and it all swirls together with a warmth that feels _alarmingly_ close to butterflies in his stomach.

He thinks about it for a moment.

And he smiles as he exhales.

“He’s cute,” Magnus says simply. And the fingers of his free hand start tracing an aimless little pattern on Catarina’s bedspread. “Tall. _Stupidly_ pretty face. And he’s…” he presses his lips together as he tries to find the right word. Words haven’t been working for him as well as they should today. “He’s sweet - charming, and sweet.” The pattern starts getting twirlier. Long, sweeping circles. His feet start moving a bit, the same type of soft, whirly movements. His smile gets a bit wider. His face twists up. “And he gets all flustered if I so much as _look_ at him for too long. Starts blushing. Can’t even string together a sentence.”

Fuck, the butterflies are downright _swarming_ now. He hates it. He hates it, dammit. Fuck.

It’s so nice.

Alec tripping over his words whenever Magnus said something he wasn’t expecting. Alec rubbing the back of his neck when he didn’t know what to say. Alec averting his gaze, ducking his head, biting his lips. Alec slowly, _slowly_ getting more comfortable. Alec’s tense posture gradually relaxing as the night went on. Alec still blushing, but smiling too.

God, his smile.

Alec laughing when Magnus made a joke. Not even a good joke. A bad joke. A horrible, horrible joke.

God, his _laugh._

But Catarina just scoffs, for the umpteenth time. “And that’s it? He has a decent face, and he’s shy? That’s all?”

“What else does there need to _be,_ Cat?” Magnus retorts, only a bit more harshly than he should. And with a great deal of effort (much more effort than should be required, really), he finally turns himself over, lying on his stomach instead of his back. Uprighting himself sends the blood rushing out of his head a little too quickly, and propping himself up on his elbows feels like an _unbearable_ hardship.

But he’s serious. He needs her to see that he’s serious about this. “Use a bit of perspective. It’s not as though I’m saying I want to marry him. I just want to buy him a drink. Kiss him a little.” He pauses. His head tips to the side. “Kiss him a lot.”

He wonders how much time he spent last night, desperately trying to ignore how much he wanted to kiss Alec. Trying not to imagine how nice it’d be to get that close to him. Trying to pretend that he wasn’t looking for any sign, any indication that Alec wanted to kiss him, any sort of invitation. Trying to deny how eagerly he would have jumped on an invitation like that. Trying so hard to keep himself from giving in and begging Alec to kiss him just to put him out of his misery.

Magnus hums. “I like him. That’s it. ‘Cute’ and ‘Nice’ are perfectly adequate qualifications for that level of commitment.”

Catarina clicks her tongue derisively. She seems to be giving less and less attention to Magnus every time she turns a page, so Magnus frankly doesn’t understand how she’s still invested enough to be this judgmental. “I don’t think nice nephilim boys are allowed to go out for alcoholic beverages. And they _definitely_ aren’t allowed to kiss warlock boys.”

Magnus rolls his eyes. “Well they certainly aren’t supposed to spend all night flirting with a warlock boy in his apartment, either. Yet here we are.”

“Oh, heavens,” Catarina gasps with far too much sarcasm, “he’ll actually deign to spend time in your home? It’s like something out a fairy tale.”

And Magnus’s patience finally wears out. “Why are you being so awful about this?” he snaps, and even though his voice is much sharper than he wants it to be, he can’t make himself care. “I get that you’re not exactly thrilled, but _jesus,_ Cat, you don’t have to be so goddamn _vehement_ about it! You-”

“Magnus-”

“You’ve disliked _plenty_ of people I’ve been with without being horrible like this.” Magnus flicks his hand, and the measly remnant of his joint disappears. “I mean… _fuck._ I thought you could at least _pretend_ to be happy that I’m happy about something for a change.”

“Well excuse me for not trusting some pasty little _shadowhunter_ to take care of my best friend!” Catarina slams the textbook closed, and a few sparks crackle between the pages. “Raised in an Institute, the child of Circle members - what did you expect my reaction to be? I didn’t realize it would only take a couple of decades for you to go from fighting for your life to trying to fuck their offspring.” She reaches for her notebook, starts flipping quickly through the pages, but it doesn’t look like she’s actually paying attention. More like she just wants something to do. “Though I have to admit, as a revenge plan against the Lightwoods, it’s rather poignant, if somewhat lacking in dignity.”

She settles on a page. Stares down at it. Her elbows on the table. Pressing her forehead to the fingertips of one hand. Her face constricts. She starts chewing on her lips (which are left blue, though the rest of her is glamoured. A little touch of bright blue against her dark skin that looks no more innocuous than a bold choice of lipstick).

And she doesn’t say anything else.

Magnus swallows.

“He isn’t like that.”

Catarina makes a small noise. “You don’t know that.” She keeps her focus down on the page. “You don’t _know_ him.”

And…

And again, she’s right. However much Magnus hates to admit it, however much he doesn’t want to admit it, however desperately he wants to deny it. She’s right.

Magnus doesn’t know him. They’ve only seen each other twice. They’ve only had one conversation. Even if that conversation happened to last an entire night, that’s still-

What is that? Just a few hours. Just one night. And - as Magnus has already willingly admitted - it was a difficult night. He wasn’t thinking clearly. There’d been an emergency. He’d had to save Luke’s life. _Fuck,_ there’s no goddamn way he can trust his judgement from last night. The circumstances were too extreme. He’d had to do too much. He’d had to exhaust himself, he’d…

Hm.

He’d needed help. He’d needed strength.

And he’d gotten it.

It’s hard to imagine a shadowhunter, a Lightwood, the son of Circle members, seeing Magnus’s magic, and-

They don’t want to be involved. They don’t want to see it, to _know_ anything about it. Even when Magnus takes jobs from the nephilim, they still don’t like his magic. They may be willing to pay for it, but that doesn’t mean they’re comfortable with it. Magnus has spent centuries watching them look away. Recoil. Sometimes it’s ignorance. Sometimes fear. Often, it’s hatred. They want nothing to do with it.

And, last night…

It’s rare enough to see a shadowhunter be comfortable with his magic. So, seeing a shadowhunter go further than that, seeing a shadowhunter willingly _interact_ with his magic, help him with it-

Having Alexander Lightwood take his hand, share his strength, _feel_ Magnus’s magic… and all to save the life of a downworlder…

Well. Before last night, he would have called it an impossibility. For four hundred years, it’s been an impossibility.

Catarina’s still right. He’s still one of the nephilim. He was still raised by Robert and Maryse Lightwood. Magnus still doesn’t know him. Not really.

Not yet, anyway.

Magnus swallows, works his throat. “I know enough.”

Catarina doesn’t seem impressed. Then again, she doesn’t seem much of anything at all. She’s still reading her notes. Or maybe just pretending to read - Magnus can’t tell.

So he tries something more direct. “Trust me.”

That at least gets a reaction - though it’s a _very_ incredulous noise. “The last time you said that, Ragnor and I ended up in jail.”

It’s a shift. A drastic change in the mood. So it takes a moment for Magnus to collect himself enough to smirk. “I bailed you out right away.”

Catarina laughs bitterly down at her notebook. “Yes, you bailed _me_ out right away.” She turns the page. “You waited two days to go back for Ragnor.”

“Mmm, yes,” Magnus sighs fondly. That was such a lovely holiday.

Catarina looks up at him. Her eyes are focused. Her gaze is careful. Unblinking.

She’s about to make up her mind. For good. Magnus can tell. He’d recognize this expression anywhere. Whatever she says next, that’ll be it. Her final, unmoving verdict.

Well, maybe Magnus at least has one last chance for a bit of damage control. “If things go wrong, I promise I will not bring _any_ of my whining to you.”

“Damn right you won’t,” Catarina says. But she’s… she’s _almost_ smiling. It’s not necessarily a happy expression, but it’s… vaguely pleasant. It’s something. It’s not awful, anyway. It’s an improvement. “I’m serious, Magnus. This is the last time I ever want to hear a single word about Alec Lightwood.”

Magnus does his best not to smile. “Understood.”

Catarina lets that sit for a moment, the lightening of the mood, the end of the conversation. And then she punctuates the finality of it by finally opening her textbook again.

Magnus considers getting himself another joint. Or maybe just a cigarette. Or some scotch? No, vodka. Hell, maybe just a bag of chips. Between his kitchen, and the corner of Catarina’s apartment that she optimistically calls a ‘kitchen’ (consisting of a sink, a mini-fridge, and an oven that could probably set off the smoke alarm without anyone even turning it on), they must have _something_ greasy for Magnus to eat. Catarina’s schedule may be so intense that she virtually _never_ has a meal here, but she still has an intense weakness for pizza rolls. There’s probably a bag crammed into the ‘freezer’ section of the mini-fridge.

Magnus probably spends at least a minute or two on his food-related musings before Catarina breaks the silence. With a sharp, intimidatingly sarcastic little sigh.

“I’ve been doing fine, by the way.”

And that’s it. She just says that part of it. The first half of her whole point. She leaves the second half unsaid, but somehow that makes Magnus hear it even louder in his head.

‘Not that you asked.’

Oh.

Well, fuck.

Magnus’s face scrunches up, like a sustained wince. “Does it help if I say that the reason I haven’t asked about you all afternoon is because your life is so well put-together that I just assume you don’t have any problems?”

Catarina doesn’t look up, but she smirks a bit. “No. It does not.”

Magnus sighs. And it manages to deflate his entire body. He slumps into the mattress a bit more, widening his elbows and resting his chin on his hands.

He’s been here for hours. He hasn’t been able to actually see Catarina in person in _weeks_ \- they’ve both just been so fucking busy. And he’s been text-pestering her with his boy troubles since the moment Alexander Lightwood left his apartment after the demon summoning.

All in all, not one of his better weeks, friendship-wise.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. He hopes it sounds even a fraction as sincere as it means it to be.

And even though they are _well_ past the marker for ‘Too Little Too Late’, he still tries anyway. “How’ve you been?”

Catarina just shrugs, rather dismissively. “It’s me. Nothing _new_ ever happens with me.” She smiles and raises an eyebrow. “I bought a new microwave a few days ago. Finally threw out the old one.”

Well, that explains the suspiciously large box on the floor next to the sink. And it’s hardly surprising that she’s apparently had it for some time, and it clearly hasn’t been touched, much less opened. It’s already covered in a layer of junk mail and plastic coffee cups - like she’s already planning on using the box as a recycling bin and has just forgotten that you’re supposed to take the microwave out of it _first._

Magnus wrinkles his nose. “Why didn’t you just fix the old one?”

“I’m not a microwave mechanic,” Catarina says flatly.

“Damn. If only you had some sort of - I don’t know - some sort of… magical abilities. To help you with things like that.”

Catarina rolls her eyes. “Microwaves aren’t supposed to last forever, Magnus. It’s good to buy new things.”

Magnus scoffs, and makes sure to sound as disgusted as possible.

Catarina and her goddamn _responsibility._

She’s always been like this. Always so invested in mundane society. Always refusing to separate herself from the completely unnecessary customs of a mortal life. She hasn’t changed, not in the hundreds of years Magnus has known her. Living in small, modest housing (because she “never really spends time at home anyway, so what’s the point?”), buying things she could easily fix with magic - or sometimes even _paying_ for a mundane to fix things for her, doing all of her shopping exclusively at local businesses, even paying her goddamn taxes every year (on her mundane income, anyway). Hell, Catarina is the only warlock Magnus has ever known who’s so entrenched in mundane society that she’s actually gotten jury duty. And served.

It’s ridiculous.

“Any other important updates I should be aware of?” Magnus asks with just a touch of sarcasm.

Catarina purses her lips. Tilts her head to one side. Considering.

“I’m thinking about getting a fish. Maybe a few fish. A little aquarium.”

Magnus laughs, and lets himself collapse a bit more. He folds his arms and uses them as a makeshift pillow. His feet start kicking gently, bouncing against the mattress. “Are you sure about that? As I recall, the last time you kept a pet, they tried to burn you at the stake.”

“That was over three hundred years ago, Magnus.” Catarina shakes her head as she lifts up another few lines of text for her notes. “Besides, I’m fairly certain that their concerns were less about the cat, and more about the fact that I healed that girl’s spine.”

Magnus makes an exaggeratedly thoughtful noise. “I don’t know if it’s worth taking that risk, just for a few fish.”

“I can make my own fish-related decisions, thank you.”

And, well. She’s setting herself up for this, really. Magnus can’t just _ignore_ it.

“You say that now, but-” he sighs, as grandly as possible, “I suppose you’ll understand when you’re older.” And he smushes his cheek even further into the crook of his elbow.

“Four months, Magnus.” Catarina snaps, with a tiredness in her voice that can only be acquired after three hundred and fifty years of hearing the same joke. “You are _four months_ older than me.”

Magnus sighs again, more wistful this time. “So young. So naive.”

And he can just barely hear Catarina grumble something under her breath as she raises a hand and-

It happens a little too quickly for Magnus to see it, but Catarina gathers up a little ball of magic and flings it right at his face.

It hits him square on the forehead, but it doesn’t actually _do_ anything. It just gives him a light little smack, then dissolves in a flurry of heatless sparks. Like smoke. Or a cloud of dust. Magnus coughs in an attempt to make her feel guilty (but it’s not enough to stop him from laughing).

Though he supposes the effect of his melodramatic coughing is somewhat lessened by the fact that he’s also reaching into his pocket for another cigarette.

But Catarina doesn’t seem to care either way. She’s just smiling smugly at her book. And her shoulders are shaking a bit - it’s that silent laugh of hers, the one she does when she doesn’t want anyone to know she’s amused. It’s just the little shake of her shoulders, and a series of _tiny_ sounds that get stuck in her throat.

It may be subtle enough to escape the attention of someone who doesn’t know to look for it, but for Magnus, it’s a blaringly loud expression.

It’s enough to make him roll his eyes as he sparks another flame from the tip of his thumb. But still, he can’t _quite_ keep himself from smiling as he lights his cigarette.

And it gets quiet again. Just the sounds of the apartment. The occasional crackle of magic as Magnus makes sure his ashes land in the tray by the garbage can outside (since Catarina had very specifically _not_ offered him an actual ashtray, and he damn well can’t get them all over her apartment). The flip of textbook pages. The rhythmic _thump_ of Magnus’s feet against the mattress.

“So,” Catarina says quietly, probably a few minutes later, “you’re really going for this?”

Magnus perks up, just a bit. Lifts his head off of his arm. Tries to ignore the little flutter he feels in his stomach, just from the question.

And slowly, he smiles. “Yes. I think I am.”

It’s not a good time. There’s so much else happening. There’s _too much_ happening. But, to some extent… doesn’t that just make this all the more important?

He goes to the Institute often enough (far more often that he’d like). Hell, he has a job there soon. So it wouldn’t… it certainly wouldn’t be difficult to find Alexander. To… well. To something. To see him. To talk to him again. Maybe to-

God, Magnus feels so juvenile. It shouldn’t be this difficult, yet here he is, trying to figure out how to ask a boy on a date. It should be so simple. So easy. But somehow, it feels like there needs to be so much _more_ to it. After all, he’d technically asked Alec on a date right after they met, and Alec technically accepted, and they’d _technically_ spent the night together, and look where it’s left them. Nowhere.

Somewhere.

He doesn’t know.

He needs to figure it out. He needs to talk to him. He needs to… tell him. He’s not sure what yet, but definitely something. That he wants another date? That he, what, that he likes him?

Magnus rolls his eyes. Because, fuck, things can’t be _that_ bad. He’s a grown man, and he can’t honestly need to tell another grown man that he ‘ _like_ likes’ him.

Then again, if it gets his point across…

He just needs to see him again. They need to talk. The specifics don’t matter. He can figure that out later. Right now, they just need… progress, Magnus supposes. They need a conversation.

Magnus needs to tell him that he wants this.

He’ll be at the Institute soon. Alec will undoubtedly be there too. Magnus can find him. Magnus can tell him then.

Yes. That’s simple. Easy.

He can manage that much.

He… he’s relatively certain he can, anyway.

Catarina makes a noise. Somewhere between a scoff and a sigh. It sounds resigned, but still… gentle. “Well, I still don’t like it, but I hope it works out for you.” She looks up at Magnus. “I hope he’s worth it.”

Magnus looks away. Down at the floor.

And he smiles. “So do I.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original author's notes can be found [here.](http://my-nameless-bliss.tumblr.com/post/158708385391)


	13. Asmodeus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Content Warnings: Self harm (burning), Referenced suicide attempt, Referenced child abuse, Brief PTSD-induced flashback.

Tangier, Morocco - 1764

 

He feels the pull. Without even having to consciously make the choice - without even really having the ability to make the choice - it starts. The moment he so much as _considers_ the decision, it starts.

And even though he knows he’s really already made the decision, even though he knows the decision’s been made for some time now, even though he knows it’s a done deal… Magnus feels fear.

But it’s not a cold sort of fear. It’s heat. A spike in the beating of his heart. Warmth radiating off of his face.

Heat in his palms. Sharp. Burning.

It burns his palms. The same type of burn. The itch that’s too deep in his blood for him to scratch it. Heat. Sparks.

He needs to get it out.

He untucks one of his hands and holds it up, just an inch or two above the ground.

The fire sparks instantly. A wide, flickering flame, above his fingertips. The color is bright, but uneven. It’s unstable.

But it calms the itch. Takes the heat out of his hands, and keeps it contained in the fire instead.

And all the while, it’s happening.

He isn’t saying anything. He knows the words, but he’s not saying them. Not even thinking them. He’d only managed to conjure up one candle. He hadn’t even drawn a pentagram. There’s just a sloppy, tight circle that he’d dug into the sand with his heel. Nothing is right. By all reason, this shouldn’t work.

But still, it’s happening. He feels it. Any second now, he’ll-

Magnus suddenly realizes what he’s doing. What’s happening. What’s about to happen-

No.

No, this is a mistake. He can’t do this.

The fire above his fingers brightens. And then it bursts, getting bigger. The flames… shiver. Unsteady. The fire grows… but downwards, not up. It gets closer to his fingers. Magnus feels the heat against his skin.

This is a mistake.

He needs to stop.

Stop.

_Stop-_

It’s too late.

It happens. Magnus feels it. He doesn’t look up, he doesn’t move, but he feels it.

He’s not alone.

It’s odd, in a way, how _instantaneous_ the change is. It’s instantaneous, and it’s exhaustive. Complete. It’s in the air itself. An odd thickness, like a cloud, a blanket. Like poison.

Poison.

That’s the best word for it. The air feels heavy. Wrong. It feels like just breathing it in will make him weak. It’s cold.

But Magnus still feels the heat in his hands. The flame is still hovering above his fingers, creeping closer and closer to his skin - which is already scarred and scabbed over with unhealed burns.

He can’t make himself look up.

The worst part is the familiarity. He hates that the most. The wrongness in the air would be bad enough on its own, but it’s made infinitely worse by the fact that Magnus has felt it before, and he knows it. It’s exactly the same as the last time he did this - something like… seventy years ago.

Can it only be seventy years since the last time? God, it feels like it’s been centuries. Lifetimes.

Well, in a way, he supposed it has been a lifetime. Just not his.

He still hasn’t said anything. Neither of them have.

Magnus wasn’t anticipating having to start the conversation. And now, he’s not sure he can. He’s not ready to hear that voice again. Hear it out loud, not just in his mind. And starting the conversation would mean inviting it. Acknowledging that he wants to hear it. Acknowledging him.

Then again, Magnus has already gotten this far. It’d be stupid to back down now. How pathetic would that look? He’s sure he already looks pathetic enough as it is.

There’s no point.

No point.

He has to do it.

Magnus lifts up his head. Clears his throat.

“Why are you here?”

And he does his best to brace himself. To prepare himself to hear the answer. Hear that voice.

But of course, it’s not enough.

“Shouldn’t I be asking _you_ that? You summoned me.”

To his credit, Magnus doesn’t flinch. But he comes unfortunately close to it.

He sounds the same. Really, it shouldn’t be surprising. Magnus should be able to handle it.

Magnus should be able to handle hearing the sound of his father’s voice without his hands trembling, dammit.

He’s still sitting on the ground, knees tucked up to his chest, one arm wrapped around his legs, one hand supporting the little flame, steadily getting closer and closer to his skin…

He shakes his head. “You expect me to believe that you’re bound by rules like that? That you couldn’t resist it, if you wanted to?” He keeps his eyes on the fire, keeps his focus on the heat. “You’re perfectly aware that I can… tell. That I can hear it, all the time, I can _hear-_ ”

He clenches his jaw. Stops himself. Takes a deep breath. “You’re only here because you want to be.” The fire flickers above his fingers. “Why?”

“I didn’t realize I need an excuse to want to see my son.”

Magnus looks up at that. But it’s a reflex, not a choice.

And he regrets it immediately. Because the first thing he sees of Asmodeus is his eyes.

Magnus’s eyes.

The sickness hits him so fast, it’s like a physical blow. A twist in his stomach, roiling, the taste of bile rising in the back of his throat.

Hatred. Hatred so intense, it’s sickening.

It had taken Magnus so many years, so many decades, so much struggle, so much energy, so much _time_ to be able to accept his warlock mark. To leave his eyes unglamoured, and feel pride instead of disgust. He’s fought for that pride. Earned it.

And seeing his eyes, seeing something he’s fought so hard to love…

It’s not fair that seeing his eyes on Asmodeus’s face immediately turns that love to hatred. An actual physical repulsion.

The itch in Magnus’s palms intensifies. Sinks deeper into his blood.

He wants to destroy those eyes. Claw them out, so he never has to see them again.

The only problem is that he doesn’t know _which_ eyes he wants to do it to. Asmodeus’s, or his own.

Of course, his own are glamoured now. He refuses to let Asmodeus ever see his real eyes. See that connection, that inheritance. He doesn’t deserve that. Magnus will leave his eyes hidden for all of this.

Though - if he’s honest - he knows he’ll probably be leaving his eyes glamoured a hell of a lot longer than that. Fuck, the last time he’d summoned Asmodeus, it had taken him over a full year before he could bring himself to let the glamour fall again, even when he was alone. He’d even found a way to maintain it in his sleep.

Last time, it had taken over a year.

Magnus looks at Asmodeus.

This time, it’ll probably be closer to a decade.

But… the longer he looks…

Magnus tries to read Asmodeus’s expression. His eyes. His face. His posture. And it’s…

It’s nothing. Magnus can’t pick out a single trace of emotion. And he has to wonder if that’s because Asmodeus is so skilled at hiding what he’s feeling-

Or if he just isn’t feeling anything at all.

Magnus grits his teeth.

Seventy years.

It’s been seventy years since Asmodeus has seen Magnus. And apparently he can’t be bothered to feel _anything_ about it.

He hadn’t even said ‘hello’.

Magnus blinks, and does his best to keep his gaze steady. “You’ve ignored me for almost a century,” he says, as plainly as he can. If Asmodeus is so unbothered by all of this, then Magnus will be too. “Why now?”

Something shifts in Asmodeus’s posture. A slight pull in his shoulders. A slight angling of his face.

And then, after a few moments, a slight lift in one corner of his mouth. An almost-smile.

Magnus thinks it was better when he was expressionless.

“I believe in acknowledgement, when acknowledgement is due,” Asmodeus says. His voice is smoother in person than the memory of it in Magnus’s mind. It’s soft. Disturbingly gentle. Something about it is both off-putting and oddly… convincing. “I wouldn’t go so far as to call it congratulations, but a job well done should be defined as such.” His half-smile ticks up another tiny bit. “It’s hardly _my_ fault that it’s taken you so long to finally catch my attention.”

That’s…

There’s too much to that. Too much, and none of it understandable. Congratulations, and attention, and a _job-_ Magnus hasn’t taken a job in years. Magnus hasn’t _done_ anything in years. He can’t even remember the last time he used his magic for anything more than a triviality, except-

No.

He can’t…

He can’t possibly mean-

Well. This is Asmodeus. He very well could.

Magnus swallows, trying to fight the bile still lingering a little too close to his throat. At some point, the flame must have flickered out from above his fingers, because he can suddenly feel heat sparking again, ready to light anew.

“You-” he swallows again, “you don’t mean…” he doesn’t know what to call it, which part of it is relevant, which part… which part he can bear to say out loud.

In the end, all he can manage is, “What happened last week.”

And again, Asmodeus’s smile grows, just a fraction. “It is a little disappointing that it’s taken you so long, but I have to admit that it was somewhat impressive. To see a taste of what you can _really_ do.”

Magnus feels his face constrict. This can’t be right. _None_ of this is right. It’s not right that he’s here. It’s not right that Asmodeus is here. It’s not right that Asmodeus is saying _this,_ talking about…

Like it was a good thing.

Like it was something Magnus _wanted_ to do.

“I didn’t…” Magnus shakes his head. “I didn’t _do_ that, I didn’t _mean_ to-” his throat closes up, cuts him off. He can’t say it. Just thinking about it, _any_ of it, is enough to make his heart pound.

“Exactly,” Asmodeus says, so lightly, so easily, like this is nothing. “So imagine what you’d be capable of if you actually wanted it. It could have been so much _more-_ ”

“People died,” Magnus cuts in. And saying it out loud, admitting it so plainly… it makes his hand start to tremble again at his side.

But he can’t hear any more. He can’t let Asmodeus talk about this like it’s acceptable. Like it’s a source of pride. “That wasn’t some little magic trick. I lost control. I… I _created_ some sort of… disaster.”

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic.” Asmodeus rolls his eyes, and the condescension is almost unbearable. “One little tidal wave is hardly a ‘disaster’. A few homes, a few lives.” His lip curls up again, but this time, it’s more of a sneer. “In a month or two, no one will even remember it.”

A spark cracks against Magnus’s palm. The heat in his skin feels more like fire than the actual fire did. “So which is it?” he snaps. “Was it worthy of your attention, or was it just a disappointing little wave? I can’t tell if I’m being praised or scolded.”

But those-

Something about that phrase, those words, those _terms…_

They sound so… familial. They’re words that make sense to apply to a father.

And applying them to Asmodeus is sickening.

Asmodeus doesn’t seem particularly troubled. He’s still just… sneering. Sneering down at Magnus. “In over a century and a half, this is all you’ve done. This is the only time you’ve _really_ tested what you can do. The effort deserves recognition, even if the results were somewhat underwhelming.”

“It wasn’t an _effort!_ ”

A flame bursts from Magnus’s palm. Small. Shaking. Unsteady.

It’s too close to his skin. Any closer, and it’ll burn him. He can feel it.

He doesn’t try to stop it.

He takes a deep breath. Forces his voice to be marginally calmer. “There was no effort on my part. It was a… reflex. A reaction.” He takes another breath. The images are starting to come back, and he can’t have that. Not now. Not with Asmodeus watching.

Magnus squeezes his eyes shut, like that might help. “I was-” he breathes out sharply through his nose. “I was in water.”

And as soon as it’s out of his mouth - he feels it. His back hitting the surface. His head going under. Salt water filling his nose, then his mouth. His clothes soaking through, weighing him down. Cold. Not knowing where the surface had gone. Not being able to breathe.

He can’t breathe.

He’s feeling it again. He’s sitting on dry sand under a glaring sun with nothing but air around him… but he feels cold. Wet. He tastes salt in his mouth, and it’s thick, it’s liquid, he can’t breathe through it-

The fire in his hand gets bigger. Hotter.

It reaches his skin. It _sears_ the skin of his palm. The pain is so sharp, so intense, he wants to cry out. He gasps in a breath-

Gasps in a breath…

And then another.

And another.

His hand is burning. There’s a fire - a fire _he_ is creating - slowly burning, blistering his hand.

There’s no fire underwater.

There can’t be fire underwater. If his hand is burning, then there must be a fire.

If his hand is burning, he can’t be underwater.

He makes the flame bigger. Makes it touch more of his skin. As long as he can breathe, the pain is inconsequential.

Asmodeus isn’t saying anything. Doing anything. He’s just waiting. Watching.

Magnus feels the flame against his hand. And he takes a breath.

“I landed in the water, and I panicked.” He feels the flame. Flame, not water. He breathes again. “And my magic reacted. To… get me out. That’s how it happened.”

He takes another breath.

He’s only felt his magic like that once before in his life. So unhinged, so entirely out of his control. So powerful. Working without a conscious decision from him. Working without his consent.

It had gotten him out of the water, at least. The force of it had just happened to take a sizeable portion of the sea with him.

An unfortunate chain reaction. His magic had saved him, and in turn, it had caused the force in the water. The force that had caused the wave. The wave that had caused the destruction. That’s all it was. An accident. It was out of his control. It wasn’t him.

“It wasn’t intentional,” he says firmly. The flame is getting cooler. It’s still touching his skin, but as it gets easier for him to breathe, it stops burning. Until it’s just a sharp heat. “It was just because of the water.”

Asmodeus makes a small, thoughtful noise. “And… how exactly did you end up in the water?”

Magnus’s gaze snaps up.

The flame disappears.

He doesn’t get to do this. Asmodeus doesn’t get to ask this question, make this insinuation. He doesn’t get to hear this answer. He’s not allowed, he doesn’t have the _right._

Magnus sets his jaw. Keeps his face blank. “I fell.”

Asmodeus tilts his head to one side. His eyes narrow. “Did you?”

Too many responses swirl through Magnus’s mind, too many reactions, too many feelings. Too many for him to process.

Because that’s the question, isn’t it? The one he’s been asking himself since it happened. The one he can’t answer.

Well, one of them, anyway. There are others - though perhaps they’re just other ways of searching for the same conclusion. A series of answers he doesn’t have. Questions he doesn’t want to think about.

What he was doing there in the first place. What had brought him to the sea. What had brought him to that cliff. Why he’d walked so close to the edge. Why he’d lost his footing. Why he hadn’t tried to catch himself. Why he’d let himself get all the way to the water, without trying anything at all.

Why his magic had to save him. Why saving himself hadn’t been his own decision.

There are too many questions. And they all lead to the same answer.

And Magnus doesn’t want to know it.

And Asmodeus is _definitely_ not allowed to know it, either.

“Yes,” Magnus states as firmly as he can, “I fell.”

One of Asmodeus’s eyebrows quirks upward. His head still tilted to the side. His posture still a little loose, a little uneven. Like he’s caught in one long, sustained shrug.

Shrugging. About something like this.

Magnus’s hand starts shaking again. The lack of reaction, the lack of _any_ trace of emotion, the fact that Asmodeus can know something like this, and-

Wait.

Magnus looks down at the ground, eyebrows furrowed, mouth tight.

“How did you know about that?”

Asmodeus doesn’t answer.

So Magnus makes himself look up again. “How did you know? About what happened, about any of it?”

After a moment, Asmodeus’s face twitches - but Magnus can’t tell what that means. “Am I not allowed to check in on my son, now and again?”

There’s…

The heat in Magnus’s hand dissipates. Entirely. And instead, he feels everything in him… sink, a little. Drop. He feels cold.

This can’t be right.

“So, what, you… saw it? You watched?”

Asmodeus looks… something. It’s not much, and it’s damn near impossible to read, but still. It’s the closest thing to an _emotion_ that he’s shown yet. Maybe it’s a hint of surprise? A mild, passive sort of surprise. It can’t be embarrassment, but it might be that he wasn’t expecting this conversation. Maybe he wasn’t expecting that Magnus would ever know this.

Whatever it is, he recovers from it quickly. And his face goes back to that horrible _blankness._ That snide neutrality. “I hardly think it’s reasonable for you to sound so surprised. It’s not as though it’s difficult for me.”

All Magnus can do is… shake his head. Because-

No, this can’t…

This is too much.

This is… everything.

This changes too much. Changes it too suddenly. Too completely.

And if it is true, then… how has Magnus not known it? Asmodeus hadn’t said anything about this the last time. He hadn’t made it seem like he knew _anything_ about Magnus, or his life, much less that he knows…

He knows everything.

It’s a fundamental shift. It’s too _big_ for Magnus to comprehend. That Asmodeus can just… see. That he can know. He knows.

He knows what happened last week, what Magnus had done. And he knows every event that led to it, every factor that brought Magnus to that point. To the water.

And, _fuck,_ it’s not even just that. It’s before. It’s all of it. Over a century and a half of life, and Magnus has spent the entire time assuming that Asmodeus wasn’t aware of a damn second of it. And now… his whole life… trailing back so far, so many years, back to-

Magnus’s stomach churns. Twists into a knot. Then drops, like lead.

“Did you see that, too?” he asks, though he can barely get his voice to work.

There’s a… twitch, in Asmodeus’s eyes. They narrow for the briefest moment, before becoming expressionless again. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes, you damn well do.” And with so much effort, so much more effort than it should take, Magnus finally drags himself to his feet.

He doesn’t know why he’s doing this. Because he knows the answer. It’s obvious. Before he’d even thought of the question, he knew the answer.

But for some unknowable, horrific reason, he wants to hear it. He wants to hear Asmodeus admit it.

“Did you see him try to kill me? Did you know it was happening?” He doesn’t give it any more detail than that. He knows he can’t. And more importantly, he knows that he doesn’t have to.

He’s not sure what he’s expecting from Asmodeus. Shame. Fear, even? Fear of how his answer will be received. No matter what Magnus may want, he knows he’s too realistic to expect an apology.

But what he gets is…

Nothing.

Asmodeus’s face gives away nothing. He just pulls back his shoulders, looks Magnus right in the eye, and says, “Yes.”

Magnus isn’t sure which is worse: the admission itself, or how easily Asmodeus gives it.

It takes a few seconds before he can trust his voice to hold. “And you just… watched?” He shakes his head again, but it doesn’t feel like he’s in control of the movement. “You didn’t think to _do_ anything? To help me?”

Asmodeus narrows his eyes - and Magnus honestly can’t comprehend how _he_ manages to be the one looking offended by this. “The fact that you’re still alive is ample proof that you didn’t need any help from me, or anyone else.”

And that’s enough to punch the air right out of Magnus’s lungs. “I…” God, he doesn’t even know where to start. What he can say. So he picks the easiest, most obvious piece of truth. “I was ten years old. My stepfather was a strong man. You had _no way_ of knowing I’d be able to save myself.”

“That’s absurd,” Asmodeus snaps. “I, of all people, know how powerful you are. I knew you were more than capable of fighting off one mundane.”

Magnus feels that heat in his palms again. Feels his hands warm from the inside out. And he isn’t sure why. If it’s because he’s talking about this - talking about it for the first time since it happened, the first time in a hundred and fifty years, the first time since he was a child.

Or if it’s because of the stunned, disbelieving _rage_ that’s starting to gather in his chest.

“I didn’t know any of that yet. I didn’t know what I was, what my magic was, what I could do. I had no idea I’d be able to stop him, or _how_ to do it.”

“And you learned.”

Magnus opens his mouth, hoping to find something he can possibly say to that-

Asmodeus doesn’t give him the chance. “Besides, even if you had needed _saving,_ I don’t know what you expected me to do about it. I’m not exactly supposed to go wandering around the earth at will.”

Magnus scoffs so sharply it’s practically a cry of disbelief. “So you could pretend to _be_ him when you wanted to fuck my mother, but you suddenly couldn’t do _anything_ when you saw him holding me under the water-”

“I knew there was nothing _for_ me to do, I knew you could handle the situation-”

“Why the _fuck_ does that matter?!” Magnus shouts with a voice that’s suddenly hoarse. “I was a child - _your_ child!” He feels sparks burst from his fingertips, hears them crackle as they hit the ground. “Even if we _both_ knew that I could stop him myself, you still should have-”

His voice gives out. Chokes off.

He swallows. Takes enough deep breaths to keep himself from screaming.

And he tries something else.

“How long would you have waited?” he asks, and now his voice is perfectly calm. “How long would you have had to see me struggle against him, before you _deigned_ to intervene?”

But again, it’s pointless. Again, he already knows the answer. He’s always known the answer.

“You wouldn’t have. You would have watched him kill me.” He makes a sound that just barely resembles a bitter laugh. “After all, what interest would you have in a child who could die so easily? It wouldn’t have mattered. You’d have just found some other woman. Started over.”

But… he’s never…

He’s never thought about that before.

Magnus lifts an eyebrow. “Unless, you already have?”

It’d be easy enough for Asmodeus. If he’s shown so little interest in Magnus over the years, it’d make no difference for him. It’s hardly important, whether he ignores one child, or one hundred.

Asmodeus’s face goes through another tiny, inscrutable change. His expression hardens. If anything, it gives away even _less._ “I don’t see how that’s any of your concern.” He raises his eyebrows. “Do you?”

Of course.

Of course not.

Magnus doesn’t know what he was expecting.

Fuck, he doesn’t know what he was expecting from _any_ of this. He knows there was no way he could have anticipated _this,_ but even so…

What did he think would happen? What was he trying to accomplish?

Getting Asmodeus’s goddamn voice out of his head, most likely. Trying to get that pull out of his chest, the nagging out of his mind. Knowing this was inevitable, and wanting to suck it up and get it over with. Desperation. Summoning him was the only thing he could think to do to-

Well. The only thing he could think to do.

But… there’s this part of him…

There’s some small part of him, some juvenile, naive, _idiotic_ part of him that had thought that _maybe…_

Maybe his father would care. About what’s been going on. About how how difficult these past few years have been, how impossible. How much he’s been struggling. Hell, less than a week ago, Magnus had tried to throw himself off a goddamn cliff - surely there’s some sort of expected fatherly response to something like that. A word of sympathy, a pat on the head, _something-_

But no. Of course not.

That’s not what Magnus has. That’s not what he gets to have.

It shouldn’t be surprising, by this point. He’s been alive this long; if he hasn’t figured it out by now, he’s certainly lost the right to be surprised by it.

Because this is what he had. And what he has now.

A stepfather who tried to kill him. And a father who watched it happen, and did nothing.

The concept of ‘family’ has never held much weight for Magnus. But now, actually face-to-face with it…

It feels… lonely. Cold. To know that the only family he has honestly doesn’t give a fuck whether he lives or dies. Asmodeus seems incapable of even _pretending_ that he cares about Magnus. And he certainly doesn’t seem bothered by that fact, either.

Magnus blinks, more than he should need to.

And he sets his jaw. “It’s time for you to leave. This is over.” He says it with all the authority he can muster.

And he waits.

Asmodeus looks at him - as empty of a look as ever.

And there’s this stupid, _stupid_ little flicker of… something, in Magnus’s chest. Something almost akin to hope. That Asmodeus will argue with that command. That he’ll fight it. That after almost a century without being able to talk to his son, he’ll want to stay. To have a bit more than these few horrible minutes. Even after all of this, even though he _hates_ himself for it, Magnus can’t keep himself from wanting Asmodeus to… care. Magnus wants his father to _want_ to stay.

Asmodeus lifts his chin. “Very well. I’ll go.”

It shouldn’t… it _shouldn’t_ feel like… rejection.

It shouldn’t feel like a cold stab to the chest.

All Magnus can do is wait. After all, the summoning was barely even a formality. Asmodeus was here because he wanted to be, regardless of Magnus’s minimal ‘effort’ to make it happen. So Asmodeus will certainly be able to leave without Magnus having to do a damn thing about it.

Asmodeus hadn’t said hello to him. But Magnus still waits for him to say goodbye. Obviously any form of _affection_ is too ludicrous to imagine, but an acknowledgement, at least. It’s one word. Maybe two. ‘Goodbye, Magnus.’

But-

Hm.

Magnus suddenly becomes sharply aware of the fact that Asmodeus has never called him by his name. Never said it. Not this time, not the time before.

Magnus suddenly has to wonder if Asmodeus even knows his name.

A goodbye.

An acknowledgement.

His name.

A nod.

 _Something._ Magnus wants something. Anything.

And he hates himself for being so surprised when he doesn’t get it.

Because Asmodeus’s lips curl up in that awful little half-smile again-

And he’s gone.

No dramatic flash of light. No lingering smoke. Not a single grain of sand is misplaced where he stood. He’s just… gone.

And, once again, like he had been before today, like he has been for years now…

Magnus is alone.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original author's notes can be found [here.](http://my-nameless-bliss.tumblr.com/post/159838532231)


	14. Downworlders

Magnus takes a deep breath before he opens the door.

“What the fuck do you want?”

Well. Apparently that breath wasn’t quite deep enough to help soften his tone.

Raphael takes a step back. He clearly won’t let himself be visibly startled, but Magnus can still tell that it wasn’t the greeting he was expecting. It takes a moment before he fixes his posture. “Looking for Ragnor. He told me he’s been staying here.”

Magnus leans against the doorframe. “He’s out. On a job.”

Raphael… deflates. His shoulders drop. It’s barely enough to be noticeable, but for someone like Raphael, it’s basically the equivalent of collapsing right on the cobblestones. “And… when will he be back?”

Magnus narrows his eyes. “When he’s done.”

There’s a moment of silence. Stillness. Magnus assumes it’s rather uncomfortable on Raphael’s part. But at the moment, Magnus can’t bring himself to give a fuck. He’s not in the mood for this right now.

Well, he’s not sure he’s _ever_ been in the mood to have an unexpected conversation with Raphael Santiago, but right now, he’s not sure he’s even capable of pretending to be civil.

Raphael’s gaze shifts awkwardly. Like he’s trying to look past Magnus, into the foyer. Like maybe Magnus is lying, and Ragnor is hiding somewhere behind him. He certainly doesn’t look like he’s planning on leaving. “His house is better than yours.” He looks at Magnus again. “Why is he staying here?”

God. It’s like a skill. Raphael has the supernatural ability to always say the _worst_ possible thing. Always. Every time he opens his fucking mouth.

Magnus grits his teeth. “Emotional support,” he says flatly. Making sure it sounds like the _end_ of a conversation, not the beginning.

Raphael’s head tics to the side. And his gaze drops. He looks Magnus up and down, seemingly taking in his appearance for the first time.

So he sees Magnus’s unwashed hair. The robe he hasn’t changed out of for more days than he’s been counting. The dark circles under his eyes. The cigarette dangling from his lip that he hasn’t bothered to light. The glass in his hand that’s seemed to always have one last sip of scotch left in it since Magnus dragged himself out of bed this afternoon - or was it already evening?

Raphael takes it all in. His face blank. Considering.

And he looks back up. “So she finally left you?”

“I don’t think the _‘finally’_ is necessary,” Magnus snaps.

God, he fucking _hates_ this kid.

Even though it’s accurate. It’s true. Magnus knows it’s true. It was just a waiting game. Honestly, Magnus never expected Etta to stay with him as long as she did. They both knew, always, from the very beginning, that this would happen. That this would be their ending. It was inevitable. Magnus had been preparing a long time for this.

But still, it’s not as though Raphael knew any of that.

Raphael makes a bland noise. A placeholder noise. “When did she leave?”

Magnus isn’t sure what the fuck makes him think he has the right to ask something like _that._ But at the moment, he doesn’t have the energy to point that out. And for some reason, he doesn’t have the energy to keep himself from answering. “Last week.”

Might as well have been yesterday. Today. Ten years ago. It’s all the same.

But Magnus won’t let himself get into that. Not now. Not with a bratty little vampire on his doorstep. “You must be thrilled,” he says, giving his voice a bit more edge. “You hated her.”

“She hated me.”

“You got blood on her favorite shoes.”

Raphael scoffs. “I was the one vomiting blood, but her _shoes_ get the sympathy?”

Well.

Magnus sniffs.

He’s supposes that’s a fair point.

Not that he’d ever admit as much.

Magnus finally takes the cigarette away from his lips (how long has it been there? He doesn’t even remember getting it, but now, having it removed, his lips feel overwhelmingly _different,_ like they’d completely adapted to the reality of permanently having damp piece of paper between them). He tucks it behind his ear instead. And he swallows down that last sip of scotch.

Unsurprisingly, when he lowers the glass he sees that there’s another sip left. It’s always so convenient when his magic decides to take care of those things without him having to put forth the effort. It’s a small bit of relief. Comfort.

Raphael is still standing there. Just standing, silent, on Magnus’s front stoop. Like he’s still waiting for something.

So Magnus sighs, as grandly as possible. “What?”

“I’d like to talk to Ragnor.”

Magnus closes his eyes. “Well there’s nothing I can do about that at the moment, is there?” Honestly, at this point, he’s immensely proud of himself for not blasting Raphael down the stairs and slamming the door. He’s too sober for this - which is really saying something. “I’ll tell him to call you when he gets back.” He nods down toward the street. “Go home.”

Raphael’s mouth moves, ever so slightly. Something in his expression… tightens. “I’d rather not.”

Well, that…

Hm.

That changes things.

It must be more than a year now, since Raphael left Magnus’s. Went back to his home, his family. Magnus didn’t exactly mark the date on his calendar, but it should be just a little over a year ago. It was last summer, and now it’s autumn.

And that’s a lot of time, for a new vampire. Magnus has been cautiously optimistic about Raphael’s situation, just because he hasn’t heard from him since. For over a year. Over an entire goddamn year, and Raphael hasn’t sent so much as a word Magnus’s way. He knows Raphael and Ragnor have kept up regular communication, but Ragnor isn’t usually here (in this neighborhood, this city, this country; he’s barely been in one place for a week at a time, until he started staying with Magnus). On the basis of location, Ragnor isn’t a realistic resource in case of emergency. So Magnus always assumed that Raphael would come back here if there were any sort of disaster.

And, lo and behold.

“They haven’t kicked you out, have they?” Magnus glances down at the front stoop, the stairs, the sidewalk below, checking for any sign of a long stick with all of Raphael’s belongings tied up in a little handkerchief.

Raphael’s face scrunches. “What?” His look of offended confusion is almost comical. It’s one of the clearest _expressions_ Magnus has ever seen from him. “No, of course not.”

Good. Magnus certainly hadn’t thought Guadalupe Santiago would have been capable of turning her son away, no matter what, considering how hard she’d fought to get him back. A transition like this can’t be easy by any means, but still.

“Then what’s the problem?”

There’s a twitch in Raphael’s face. A new look, a reaction that tries to get out, but he keeps it back. “Things aren’t… easy there, right now.” The twitch happens again. It’s less subtle this time. “My mother is struggling.” He works his lips. “With me.”

Magnus feels a dark, sharp twist in his chest. Softened by alcohol, but still harsh enough to burn. “Really?” He tilts his head. His lip wants to curl up into a sarcastic smirk, and he doesn’t have the will to prevent it. “Has she made any attempt to kill you, or herself?”

Raphael shifts back, tense. “No?”

Magnus hums. “Then you’re already having a much better childhood than I did.”

Raphael is silent. His face is blank, but somehow, that just makes it clearer that his mind is racing.  

After a moment, he sets his jaw. “I wasn’t aware that it’s a competition.”

And…

Shit.

Magnus closes his eyes.

_Shit._

He tries another one of those deep breaths. “Of course it’s not.” He opens his eyes, and does his best to look reasonably soft. “I’m sorry.”

Raphael doesn’t seem to have a response to that. He’s still just… lurking on the front step. Magnus hasn’t kept his porch light on recently, and Raphael looks somehow even smaller than usual in the odd mismatch of light spilling out from the doorway.

The sun hasn’t fully set. There’s still that faint, dusky glow clinging to the horizon. Spanish Harlem isn’t terribly far away, but it’s still a few miles. Even with a vampire’s speed, it’s a lengthy walk. Which means that Raphael must have left the very moment it was dark enough for him to step outside. Maybe even earlier. Maybe he’d kept himself ducked in the shadows, carefully planning each step.

He must have wanted to get away. Badly.

And Magnus can’t help but feel an odd sort of sympathy for him. For the fact that he’d desperately wanted to see Ragnor, and he’d gotten _this_ instead. Magnus can’t be trusted to offer anyone comfort even on a good day. Now, he can barely even be trusted to get out of bed unless Ragnor is there to force him.

Poor Ragnor. It’s already shitty enough for him, taking care of Magnus like this. He doesn’t need to parent a snotty little vampire on top of it.

Magnus takes one more last sip of scotch.

“You’ll be able to figure it out,” he says, hoping he sounds at least somewhat reassuring. “It may not feel like it, but you still have time with them.” He shrugs one shoulder, hoping a bit of levity might help the mood. “You’re only fifteen.”

Raphael hardens. It’s instant, and almost bewildering in how _thoroughly_ it changes him. His shoulders. His jaw. His eyes. Everything… stiffens.

“Sixteen.”

Ah.

Magnus can feel himself sink, ever so slightly. He feels a few layers of bitterness and annoyance slip away, as easy as shedding an extra article of clothing.

So. That’s what this is. What it’s really about.

He probably should have been able to guess. It’s been over a year, after all.

Magnus knows he can’t make himself smile. So he aims for anything softer than a scowl. “Happy birthday.”

Raphael blinks. Too frequently. Too fast. And he doesn’t say anything.

Magnus lifts his glass for another sip of scotch-

It’s empty.

Fuck. He must have finished the bottle. And he doesn’t know where Ragnor hid the rest of them.

 _Fuck._ He’s been meticulously keeping himself at a certain level of inebriation for at least a few days now, carefully maintaining his consumption to avoid what will inevitably the hangover of his lifetime. He doesn’t think he can handle having his system interrupted, now of all times.

Ragnor is still out. It could still be several more hours before he gets back, for all Magnus knows.

And Raphael is still cowering on his front step. From the look of it, he could be only moments away from finally breaking.

Magnus takes another deep breath - and this one actually feels somewhat successful, somewhat soothing. “That gets easier, over time. You’ll get used to it.” Hell, Magnus hardly even notices when his birthday comes and goes anymore. By now, he’s more accustomed to doing the math whenever he wants to know how old he is, rather than keeping the number in his mind. “Milestones can still be… unpleasant. But for the most part, aging without really _aging_ becomes commonplace. Eventually, it won’t be difficult for you at all.”

It had seemed like a fair enough bit of comfort (and a rare one at that; Magnus has never spoken so candidly about this with _anyone_ except Ragnor and Catarina), but Raphael sneers. He actually _sneers_ at Magnus, like he’s been insulted. “What could a _warlock_ know about that? You didn’t have to ‘get used’ to anything. You’ve always been like this.”

Magnus smiles. But not brightly, or wide.

Oddly enough, he feels settled. He’s calmer now than he’s been since he opened the door. The annoyance is all but gone, and instead, what he’s left with is sympathy.

“I didn’t always know I was immortal. My death was taken from me when I was a child. Just like yours.”

Raphael looks at him. He looks over every inch of his face, like if he looks hard enough, he’ll find the right thing to say. Magnus can see his jaw working, preparing the words he doesn’t know yet. There’s something in his eyes. Surprise, maybe. Or confusion. Discomfort. Like he didn’t want to know this. Like he didn’t want Magnus to be able to understand.

He looks lost.

Magnus sighs. He sends his glass to the kitchen sink - though being without it makes him feel so terrifyingly _empty,_ like he’s missing a fundamental piece of something.

And he steps to the side, nudging the door a little further open with his shoulder. He jerks his head once, in toward the foyer. “Come on, then.”

Raphael doesn’t move. Not so much as a flinch.

Magnus rolls his eyes. “I don’t allow loitering. If you’re going to wait for Ragnor, you have to do it inside.”

“I’m not staying here again.”

“Damn right you’re not,” Magnus snaps. “I said you could wait for Ragnor. If he wants to deal with you, that’s his decision. But I have absolutely no interest in babysitting. This isn’t some sort of daycare for baby downworlders.” He nods inside again. “Don’t get too comfortable.”

Raphael keeps looking at him. But now, his face is hard. His expression is cold. Almost like a challenge. A way of proving to Magnus that he doesn’t _need_ this. That he doesn’t want it.

The look only cracks a little as he walks inside.

  


Magnus feels an odd hint of deja vu as he drops the cherry into his glass. He vaguely remembers that had been an Old Fashioned last time, too. Well, that had been his plan, anyway. That time, he’d only made it as far as the bourbon. This time, he won’t be interrupted. He’s going to make his damn drink, exactly how he wants it.

Hm.

He wonders if he should offer a drink to Luke, while he’s at it. It’d certainly be the polite thing to do.

Then again, Magnus hasn’t quite decided if he’s in the mood to be polite.

Luckily, Luke picks a different topic before Magnus has to make up his mind. “He didn’t like me last time.”

“Hm?” Magnus glances over his shoulder with only the mildest interest.

Luke is sitting on the very edge of the couch, like he’s ready to bolt at any moment. Like having his entire ass on the cushion is more of a commitment than he’s willing to make.

And The Great Catsby is standing on his lap, kneading his paws into Luke’s thighs and butting his nose under Luke’s chin. Over, and over, and over. Luke tries to crane his neck out of the cat’s reach, but Catsby won’t be denied once he sets his sights on someone. He puts his front paws on Luke’s chest, and if the way Luke flinches is any indication, he’s using his claws to keep him from moving out of nuzzling range.

Magnus quickly takes a sip of his drink - even though he hasn’t finished making it - using the glass to hide the smile he’s trying to fight off. “To be fair, _no one_ liked you last time. Have you forgotten how horrible you smelled?” He turns back to the bar, keeping Luke in his periphery. “Besides, Catsby always hides from miserable, brooding strangers.”

Luke starts petting Catsby’s back, clearly trying to get him to sit down so he can free his face from the cuddling onslaught. “That description doesn’t fit me anymore?”

Magnus shrugs. “That appears to be Catsby’s opinion.”

“I figured cats just don’t like werewolves.”

“I can’t speak for felines in general, but I think it’s safe to say that this cat likes this werewolf just fine.”

Luke’s face falls a bit. He frowns down at Catsby, even as he keeps running his hand in smooth lines down his spine, and scratching behind his ears.

It’s a rather amusing image. This tall, strong, unfortunately handsome young man, perched delicately on a sofa cushion, giving a look of cartoonish severity to an obliviously happy cat. Catsby’s gravelly purr is audible all the way from the bar.

Magnus twirls his middle finger lightly around the rim of his glass, and produces an orange slice from the fridge while his drink swirls together with a faint blue glow. “So, to what do I owe the-” He wrinkles his nose. Conversational habit wants him to say ‘pleasure’, but his better judgement won’t allow that particular word. So with no elegant way of smoothing out what he’s already said, he just finishes with, “The fact that you’re here?” With the orange securely wedged on the rim of his glass, Magnus finally turns around - though he leans back against the bar, lest Luke think he’s too invested in the conversation.

But Luke doesn’t seem to notice, one way or the other. He’s still keeping that ridiculous frown pointed at Catsby. “I’m here to ask a favor.”

“Ah!” Magnus throws up his free hand in a flippant gesture. “Well that simplifies things.” He nods sharply toward the front door, and it immediately swings open. “Have a nice day.”

Luke’s head tilts, or maybe rolls. Like he wants to roll his eyes, but thinks this somehow makes his intentions less obvious. “Magnus-”

“I did you a favor three months ago. One is uncommon enough. _Two_ in a row is completely unheard of.” He takes a slow sip of his drink. “Come back when you’re ready to pay.”

“I’m not asking for me.” Luke looks up now, actually making steady eye contact with Magnus for the first time since he got here. His expression is… calm. Unusual. Unreadable. “I’m here on behalf of the Brooklyn pack.”

Oh.

Well.

That’s certainly not what Magnus was expecting.

“You’re with them?”

For a moment, Luke just looks at him. But then, he nods. “Almost a month now.”

Even though it’s undoubtedly the smallest, most trivial detail of this whole surprising thing, the first thing Magnus wants to know is how the fuck he didn’t know this sooner. Lucian Greymark has been one of the most heated topics in what seems like the entire downworld ever since he turned. Magnus was sure that he’d heard all of the gossip by now, from the founded to the extremely foolish. There’s no fucking way he should have been able to join a pack without Magnus hearing so much as a whisper about it.

And the _Brooklyn_ pack, no less. Honestly, this whole High Warlock thing still may be less than half a year old, but that doesn’t mean he has any excuse to not know something _this_ important happening in his own damn jurisdiction.

The pack must be choosing to keep this quiet. It has to be intentional. There’s no other explanation.

Well. When he thinks about it like that, it’s actually not very surprising. The ex-Circle member - and Valentine Morgenstern’s ex-parabatai - still isn’t a particularly popular member of downworld society, even though it must be close to a year now since the entire nephilim world permanently cast him off. People are still justifiably hesitant to admit that he might be an ally now, and a uniquely valuable one at that.

Which makes the need for secrecy two-fold. To make sure the pack doesn’t make themselves a target for other downworlders who might be unhappy with Luke’s presence, and to make sure the nephilim don’t know that Luke has a found a place of allegiance against them.

But still. Someone could have at least left Magnus a quick voicemail to let him know. Luke New-Name shouldn’t have the power to so thoroughly surprise Magnus Bane.

Magnus sniffs delicately, and hopes it communicates the intensity of his displeasure in finding out this news in this situation. And, just in case that doesn’t work-

“I have good friends in the Brooklyn pack. People who could easily get a favor out of me.” He quirks an eyebrow. “Why did they send _you_ instead?”

Luke makes an inarticulate noise of frustration, shrugging his shoulders with enough exasperation to make Catsby let out an unhappy meow. “I don’t know, okay? They said since I’m the new guy, you might be… extra sympathetic, or something.”

Magnus laughs. A shallow, eagerly condescending laugh. “Oh, puppy, I believe you’re being hazed.”

“Yeah, well. You gonna help us or not?” Luke snaps, clearly not seeing the same humor in the situation as Magnus.

For a moment, Magnus considers being horrifically offended by his tone of voice. But he thinks better of it. This is business, after all. Magnus might as well hear him out before telling him to fuck off. “What’s the favor?”

Luke looks at him carefully. Something in his eyes is softer than before. Perhaps he’s acknowledging that this is important. That he and Magnus are on the same side now. That he’s part of Magnus’s world. And that in this world, Magnus is - in some sense of the word - his superior.

And his posture changes. His shoulders fall back. His legs spread the tiniest bit, just enough to plant him more solidly _on_ the couch cushion. His head tips back.

It’s a ‘business’ posture. Magnus can tell that immediately. Luke must have been accustomed to this, to speaking, to meetings, to delegating, back during his days in nephilim Institutes. It’s still formal, almost militaristic. But it’s also the most comfortable that Magnus has ever seen him. He knows what he’s doing like this.

“The pack has established a new safe house. One the Circle won’t know about. One that won’t be on the nephilim’s radar. But they’d be more comfortable with some guarantees of safety. Wards.” He tilts his head. “Nothing unusual. Just the standard precautions.”

Magnus narrows his eyes, and indulges in another drink. “If it’s so standard, I fail to see where the ‘favor’ comes in. This just sounds like good business.”

To his credit, Luke doesn’t actually look away. But it’s like his gaze almost… twitches a bit, which-

Ah.

“Unless, of course,” Magnus sighs knowingly, “I’m not going to be paid.”

Luke works his lips for a moment. Thinking something through. Choosing his tactic, probably. “Money’s been tight for the pack lately.” He blinks. “Funeral costs, and all.”

He still doesn’t look away. Magnus is actually impressed. There’s an… awareness, in his gaze. An acknowledgement. A responsibility.

A sense of fault.

This might be the most Magnus has liked Luke since they first met. It’s not as though that bar was very high (not even off the ground, really), but still. There’s a hint of begrudging respect, which is certainly new.

As the seconds go by, Luke’s face finally starts to fall. The hard resolve starts to slip away. The certainty cracks.

He looks nervous. Like he thinks Magnus is going to turn him down. Like he doesn’t know what he’ll do if that happens.

This is quite a big responsibility to give the ‘new guy’. Particularly a new guy in Luke’s position. The mere fact that they’d sent him, that they’d trusted their safety with him, that they’d indirectly trusted that Magnus would be inclined to listen to him, to accept a favor that Luke has asked…

“My next availability is Wednesday evening,” Magnus says, trying to keep his voice as neutral as possible. Not wanting to give Luke _any_ way to discern Magnus’s opinion. His feelings.

Luke sags, the tension instantly draining out of his face and shoulders. The relief is so palpable that even Magnus feels a bit more relaxed. Luke’s lessening discomfort manages to lessen the discomfort that Magnus wasn’t even feeling in the first place. Luke composes himself quickly enough, but the relief can’t be hidden. “We’ll make time,” he says firmly, using that formal voice again, the one he clearly learned by listening in on Clave meetings.

Hm. Magnus finds himself smiling a bit, entirely against his will.

‘We’ll.’ We.

It’s hardly a gesture, not at all some pledge of fealty. It’s small. It’s probably not even a conscious choice.

Luke has a pack now. Luke has been taken in by downworlders, by the people he’d been sworn to destroy no more than a year ago. And Luke has just referred to them as ‘We’. Naturally, perhaps habitually. It’s encouraging, to say the least.

A few moments pass in silence.

“He wants a war, doesn’t he?” Magnus asks, tracing his fingers through the perspiration on his glass.

Luke doesn’t look surprised by the question. On the contrary, he looks like he’s been asked before. Like he’s practiced this answer. “It’s not his goal. But he’s prepared for it.”

“And if it comes to that, do you know what you’ll do?”

Luke’s expression doesn’t necessarily harden, but it… resolves. It becomes clearer. “Yes.” And since he knows what Magnus is _really_ asking, he specifies. “I know who I’m with.”

Magnus’s mouth moves. He thinks he means it to be a smile, but it doesn’t quite get there. “That’s good to hear.” He takes another drink. And he hums. “After all, I’d be heartbroken if my cat was this friendly to someone who’s loyal to the Circle.”

Luke blinks, processing the sudden change in tone. He looks down at Catsby (who’s still happily kneading his paws into Luke’s stomach, unaware of the weight of what’s happening around him). After a moment he makes a sharp little noise, something that almost resembles a laugh, and his mouth twists up, and-

Oh.

“So, he _does_ know how to smile,” Magnus says, with just a _hint_ of teasing playfulness.

But, of course, he shouldn’t have said anything. Because the moment it’s out of his mouth, Luke’s smile vanishes.

Shame. It really was lovely.

“Ah, so. Wednesday night,” Luke confirms, awkwardly nodding his head. “Someone will be in contact with you.”

Magnus purses his lips. “Alright. And, tell the pack that if they ever need more favors like this, they have to send you. I won’t see anyone else.”

Luke’s eyes go comically wide, and he frowns yet again. “Why?”

Magnus smirks. “Because I have a feeling that it’ll annoy you to no end.” He takes another long, slow drink, catching one of the cherries in his mouth. “Strictly for business, of course. Now that the pack’s adopted you, my guest room is closed. You’re their problem now, not mine. Catsby may like taking in baby downworlders, but I do not.” He holds the cherry between his teeth, and plucks off the stem.

  


Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, s-

“There’s a lot of Cole Porter.”

Seventeen… no, sixteen?

Magnus closes his eyes. Lets out a long sigh through his nose. Ands puts the handful of dragon scales back into the ‘uncounted’ pile.

One, two, three, four…

Simon keeps thumbing through the records on the shelf. “Whoa.” He thumbs through a few more. “You got a _lot_ of Cole Porter.”

Despite himself, Magnus smirks a bit. “That’s one way of putting it.”

Seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven - set aside the one that’s cracked, twelve…

Simon lets out some sort of awkward noise that _might_ be a laugh. “So, lemme guess, you only like his music so much because you, like… hooked up with him, or something?”

Magnus scoffs. “Of course not.” He glances up. “I only hooked up with him because I like his music so much.”

Simon’s eyes go wide, and something changes in the color of his face that indicates he’d be blushing, if vampires could blush.

Magnus raises an eyebrow. “Don’t ask questions if you don’t want to hear the answer.”

Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one. Twenty-one dragon scales, and another two with mild damage. Magnus carefully pours them back into their jar, and marks the numbers in his excel spreadsheet.

Right. Onto the herbs.

God, Magnus hates inventory day.

Particularly when inventory day happens to coincide with vampire babysitting day.

Luckily, Simon busies himself with wandering over to the next shelf, and he seems to be temporarily satisfied with _silently_ perusing the contents of Magnus’s life (Magnus wants to be bitter about this random kid thinking he can snoop through Magnus’s things like this, but he has to admit, these wide-open, presentationally-arranged bookshelves aren’t exactly private). There’s nothing dangerous or breakable in Simon’s immediate proximity, so Magnus isn’t particularly worried.

So he waves his hand, sending the tray of jars he’s tallied back to their places in storage, and conjuring up a new tray of un-inventoried bottles. His scale is all the way across the table, and he can’t be bothered to reach that far, so he magicks it a little closer. And he takes a deep, preparatory breath.

He clicks on the tab for the ‘herb’ section of his inventory spreadsheet… and watches in abject _despair_ as the scrollbar immediately starts shrinking to accommodate all the new rows of information he needs to calculate. And - unable to silently contain his misery - he lets out one emphatic, harsh: “Ffff _fuck_.”

He doesn’t look up, but he can hear a little squeak of surprise from the Simon-infested portion of the room.

Magnus rolls his eyes. “Sorry. ‘Gadzooks!’ Is that better?”

God, he _hates_ inventory day.

His potion book is open, resting next to his laptop. Magnus turns a few pages, being as careful as he possibly can - even though it has to be the best-preserved thing he’s ever owned, with damn near three hundred years’ worth of protection spells on everything from the binding to the ink. He flips through it until he finds the list of ingredients he’ll be needing for the job he’s doing later in the week, wanting to make sure he has those in stock before anything else.

He shifts a little in his chair. His ass is getting sore. He feels like he’s been sitting here for weeks. Doing the most tedious, horrifically precise task he’s ever faced with. Reading through his potion book still isn’t enough to help lift the mood, and that’s saying something. Even the comforting familiarity of Luzia’s careful, beautiful handwriting can’t cheer him up right now, nor can the contrast of the sloppy notes she’d scribbled into the margins for him.

( _‘You’ll notice that this says to leave sit for 1 hour before stirring. That’s 1 hour, not 45 minutes. Honestly, someone as old as you should have learned some patience by now.’ ‘I’ve marked this as clearly as possible in hopes that you might show the same consideration in measuring your pricelessly rare ingredients as you do in measuring your tea leaves.’ ‘Remember that time in Cairo, when we thought it would be amusing to drink the entire love potion ourselves before it was finished? Well this spell works better when you_ _don’t_ _do that._ ’)

Magnus runs his hand across his mouth, and finds that he’s smiling. Well. Maybe it’s enough to cheer him up a _bit._ He picks up the first bottle-

“Oh, wow, are these love letters? Like, _actual_ love letters?”

Magnus’s head tips back, and he wills himself to count to ten before speaking. “Yes, and they’re not personal _at all._ Please, go right ahead. Read them at your leisure.” Of course, the only reason he’s not magicking that particular collection out from under Simon’s nose is because Magnus knows he won’t be able to understand them. He’s absolutely certain that not a word of them is in English.

Except, of course, for-

Simon lets out a delighted little squeak. “Aw, ‘Maggie’, that’s cute!” He looks over at Magnus with a grin that is far too big and _far_ too dumb. “Is that you? Are you Maggie?”

“ _No,_ ” Magnus says as firmly as possible. He plants both of his hands on the table, and takes several more deep breaths, trying to conjure up some emergency supply of patience that might be tucked away in his body.

Simon is still hunched over the orderly stack of letters. At the very least, he seems to have the good sense to not touch them. “These aren’t… these aren’t from Alec, are they?”

Oh, for the _love of-_

Magnus rolls his eyes so spectacularly that his whole head rolls along with them. “Yes, didn’t you know that Alec speaks fluent Swiss-French and buys all of his stationery from the _nineteenth century?_ ”

Simon’s face screws up in a wince. “Right. Duh.” He shakes his head and lets out a high-pitched, embarrassed laugh. “Right.” He turns away from the shelf, like this might _finally_ be the last of his perusals.

And almost instantly, his eyes land on Magnus’s potion book. “Ooh, what’s-”

“Oh my _god!_ ” Magnus lifts both his hands off of the table, and they tense in front of him, like he’s trying to keep himself from strangling something - or someone. “Can you honestly not sit still for ten fucking seconds? Luke didn’t tell me I’d need to childproof my goddamn apartment before he dropped you off!”

Simon just… looks at him. For a long time. Eyes wide.

And then his face falls. “Sorry,” he says quietly. “I guess I kinda…” He rubs his hands up and down the tops of his thighs, shoulders pulled back in obvious discomfort. Maybe- fuck. Maybe fear. “I get antsy when I’m nervous. It’s stupid.”

Magnus sighs. He slumps a little in his chair, willing that last little bit of tension to droop out of him. He closes his eyes for a moment. “What are you nervous about?”

Simon looks up at the ceiling. “Lately? Everything.” He shrugs, clearly trying to smile, to laugh, to play it off as a joke.

And it’s not as though Magnus can snap at him again, after an answer like that. Not in good conscience, anyway. He sighs, and tries to keep his voice as gentle as possible. “Just… maybe a little less conversation while I’m working?”

Honestly, Magnus didn’t think he’d need to specifically request that much. The first thing he’d done when Simon walked in the door was give him the universal remote and the wifi password. There’s a bag of blood in the fridge, and even though the sun is mostly-risen by now, Magnus has meticulously drawn every shade and curtain, making sure every inch of the loft is vampire-friendly. Everything about the setup was meant to engender a sense of independence, rather than camaraderie. Magnus doesn’t know what it is about him sitting at a desk and carefully weighing various powdered roots that makes Simon think ‘Team Activity’, but whatever it is, it’s not Magnus’s fault.

“Right. Working. Peace and quiet.” Simon does another one of those awkward half-smiles, and- oh god. He actually makes _finger-guns_ at Magnus. The poor thing really is out of his depth. “Got it.”

And while Magnus is _far_ from optimistic about Simon’s actual ability to keep to himself for more than a second and a half… it seems like he’s at least making an effort. He leaves Magnus to his burdock and retreats to the fringes of the room. Out of the corner of his eye, Magnus can see him continue to survey the content of the shelves, but now-

Oh, that’s actually rather sweet. He’s holding his hands demurely behind his back. Like a toddler in a fancy store.

Well, Magnus certainly appreciates the gesture. The attempt.

So of course he’s _just_ been lulled into a false sense of productivity when Simon audibly perks up again. Magnus glances up, and sees that Simon’s got his eyes on something in Magnus’s direction. Something on Magnus’s desk. His face is a picture of wide-open excitement.

“Hey, is this yours?” he asks, too eagerly. And he reaches down toward a pile of books on the edge of the desk. It’s vague at first, but then Magnus can tell that he’s singling out Ragnor’s bible, reaching right for it-

“Don’t touch that!” Magnus has magicked the bible into his hands before he can even make the conscious decision to do so. And he recoils from Simon, clutching the book to his chest, protecting it from the very _thought_ of letting someone else touch it.

Simon’s hands are held up in surrender. Magnus had thought he’d looked terrified before, but the wideness in his eyes then is nothing compared to what it is now. “I’m sorry? I’m sorry,” he sputters out, shrinking back, like he’s trying to will himself to dissolve into the drapes. “I wasn’t- I just thought…” he trails off. Makes no attempt to finish his sentence.

For a moment, Magnus just has to… breathe.

He has to breathe.

He _has_ to breathe.

The bible is still clutched in his hands. It takes several seconds, but Magnus eventually convinces himself to loosen his grip. And even then, it’s only because he’s worried that his nails might dent the cover.

He takes another breath. Swallows.

And he manages to set the bible down. He glances up at Simon. “It belonged to a friend of mine.”

And that’ll have to be explanation enough. Right now, it’s all the explanation he can manage.

Simon… crumples a bit. It’s odd. It’s not what Magnus expected. This shouldn’t be important to him, should it? It shouldn’t make him look this _sad._

“So you’re- um.” Simon makes a few odd gestures with his hands, brushing them across his jeans. Letting out more of that nervous energy, from the look of it. “You’re not… religious, I guess?” And he chuckles awkwardly. Like he’s trying to seem nonchalant. Like he’s trying not to care about the answer.

“I don’t subscribe to any sort of spiritual beliefs, no,” Magnus says firmly. It’s the usual response, after all.

But…

But Simon looks so… disappointed? Or maybe it’s more-

Hopeless.

Oh.

Magnus sighs. It’s not exactly a conversation he was planning on having with a temporary houseguest (particularly not while Magnus is supposed to be _working_ ), but it seems… well. ‘Necessary’ is a strong word.

Decent. It’d be decent of him to have this conversation.

Still, that doesn’t mean he needs to go into any great detail. “Muslim mother. Protestant step-father. I was raised with a… blend of the two.” He leans back a bit. Slows down. Wills himself to sound somewhat-pleasant. “But when they realized what I am, both of their faiths became…” he swallows, “less kind to me.”

Simon’s face is completely blank now.

Hm. Magnus didn’t know his face was capable of being this quiet.

Magnus tilts his head - like a shrug, but with less enthusiasm. “Still, I’m not entirely unconvinced by the concept of theism.” He allows himself the tiniest hint of a smirk. “It’s hard to discredit the idea entirely when my father has an honorable mention in _multiple_ religious texts.”

It’s maybe a little cruel of him to intentionally throw away a comment like _that_ in the middle of a conversation like _this._ But the look of mildly-horrified _shock_ on Simon’s face is absolutely worth it. He moves his mouth a few times, but eventually he just manages to gasp out, “Right.”

Magnus smiles to himself. That’ll probably keep Simon’s imagination occupied for a while. But, still, Magnus knows it’d be cruel to leave the conversation there.

“I know this is all still new to you. And right now, the shadow world probably still seems small. Contained.” He tries to make himself smile with a bit more sincerity. “But believe me, it is just as expansive and _varied_ as the rest of the world. You just don’t know that yet.”

He gives it a moment. Lets the words sink in. Waits for them to take root, to gain meaning.

And after staring at Simon’s blank face for several seconds, Magnus realizes he’s not going to get there.

So Magnus raises his eyebrows, and leans toward Simon, just a bit. “None of us are as unique as we like to think, Stuart. You’re not the only religious downworlder out there. There are people who know exactly what you’re going through.”

Simon makes a dumb noise that might be his version of a scoff (it lacks the confidence that Magnus associates with most scoffs. It sounds a little shrill). “You know a lot of Jewish vampires, huh?” He says it sarcastically, scornfully, even. Full of incredulity.

His disbelief makes it even more satisfying for Magnus to calmly say, “I know a few, yes. And those are just my personal acquaintances. I’m sure it’s a _much_ bigger community than the niche you’re imagining.” He gives it another moment to settle. “I could get you in contact with some friends of mine, if you’d like. I’m sure they’d be infinitely more helpful to you than I ever could be.” He shrugs, just to try to take a little bit of weight out of the situation.

Simon just… stares him down for a few moments. His eyes are wide again, and his mouth isn’t quite closed all the way. But while it’s clearly the same type of disbelief, this time, there’s something else to it. A hint of hope. “You… could you-” His eyebrows shoot upward. “Yeah?”

Magnus realizes that he’s smiling before he can think to stop himself. “Yes. It’d be no trouble at all.”

And once he gets his face under control again, he raises an eyebrow, and gives a little huff. “Besides, I’d do anything to keep you out of my hair. And my apartment.” He makes a show of giving his focus back to his work. “This isn’t some bed and breakfast for baby downworlders.” He makes a dismissive noise. “And even if it were, you wouldn’t be able to afford it.”

  


It’s been a long time since Magnus heard Alec snore. By now, Magnus has figured out that it only happens when he’s _truly_ exhausted. When he’s injured, when he gets back from an overnight patrol, when he’s sick…

And right now, apparently.

Honestly, Alec only _finally_ agreed to lie down a few minutes ago. And now he’s already sprawled out to all four corners of the bed, snoring louder than Magnus has ever heard him, with his mouth wide open in a way that makes it clear he’ll have the pillowcase thoroughly soaked in under an hour.

And to think, he’d insisted that he wasn’t tired at all. He’s always been such a horrible liar.

Blueberry starts wriggling a bit in Magnus’s arms. He makes a noise that sounds decidedly unhappy, which turns into another noise, and another…

“Oh, no, sweetheart,” Magnus tries to shift him, get him more comfortable, “please not now.” He glances up at Alec. “He _just_ fell asleep, can’t we let him have a few minutes of quiet?” This is the first time Blueberry has been relatively calm in _several_ hours now, and Magnus was just starting to enjoy the silence.

But Blueberry doesn’t feel like cooperating. His voice just gets louder, and louder, and Magnus hears an inarticulate grumble from the bed-

Well, that won’t do. He quickly throws up a little barrier around the bed. Just enough to keep the sound out. And it’s just in time, too, because Blueberry’s crying has really picked up volume.

The snoring stops. Magnus watches Alec, waiting to see if he’ll wake up…

But a few moments later, the snoring comes back, even louder than before.

And while Magnus can’t exactly consider it an _ideal_ situation for himself - with a boyfriend snoring at full-volume across the room, and a baby crying at full-volume in his arms - it’s good to know that at least _someone_ in this family is getting some sleep. Honestly, it’s been less than twenty-four hours since Blueberry was first placed in Magnus’s arms, but it already feels like it’s been weeks since he got a decent night’s sleep.

Luckily, Blueberry doesn’t seem interested in much more than this passionless crying. And while that’s still _loud_ , it’s nothing like the wailing he seems to do when something is actually wrong.

And as Magnus cradles him a little closer, and starts rocking them in the chair… Blueberry seems to settle down easily enough. Which feels like an outright _miracle_ at this point, as far as Magnus is concerned. It’s actually…

Hm.

Magnus chuckles. It’s actually a rather idyllic image, isn’t it? Sitting in this worn-out attic, in an actual goddamn rocking chair, that he’s actually using to rock the baby in his arms.

His baby. Their baby.

It hasn’t quite sunk in yet. Magnus thinks it’ll probably be quite some time before this particular reality sinks in enough to hold permanence in his mind. Right now, it’s still so new, still so sudden, that it’s like he can forget it if he lets his mind wander. Like he forgets about his new situation as soon as he looks away from Blueberry.

Magnus chuckles again. Because that’s rather fitting. At the moment, they _both_ lack object permanence. It’s a funny little thing to have in common with Blueberry.

Blueberry. Hm. He’s starting to get used to that. Too used to it.

Magnus smiles, and tilts his head down to have a conspiratorial conversation with Blueberry. “You know, this is rather ridiculous. Scandalous, even.” He lowers his voice to a whisper, making sure Blueberry can tell that this is a secret. “I’ve been around for four hundred years, and this is the first time I’ve fallen in love with someone before I even know their _name._ ”

Blueberry’s only response is a string of half-hearted noises. But Magnus can tell he’s invested in the conversation, so he keeps it up.

“We should really start thinking about that soon, or we’ll get too comfortable and just call you ‘Blueberry’ for the rest of your life.” He purses his lips. “It may be cute, but I think it lacks a certain subtlety. We need to give you a proper name as well.”

Blueberry starts squirming. Magnus gives him one of his hands, lets him tug and shake and experimentally taste Magnus’s fingers.

“If only ‘Ragnor’ wasn’t such an awful name,” Magnus says wistfully. “You’re already going to have to walk around with blue skin; we can’t very well call you _Ragnor_ on top of it. It’d be cruel.” He shakes his head. “Just imagine what high school would be like. Honestly, I wish I could say that the name was in fashion when he picked it, but I’m fairly certain it was already dumb back then. I have no idea why he chose it.”

Oh. Well that’s… something he hadn’t considered yet. Something he hadn’t realized about naming Blueberry in the first place.

It’s odd, choosing a name for someone who will most likely choose an entirely different name for himself in a handful of years.

Then again, it sort of takes the pressure off. If Blueberry doesn’t like the name they give him, he’ll just pick a better one. Like all warlocks do.

Magnus supposes this also solves the surname crisis, doesn’t it? Well, it’s hardly a ‘crisis’. More of a curiosity. He doesn’t know what’s typically done about the surname when two boyfriends suddenly decide to adopt a baby together. They should probably hyphenate, shouldn’t they? Lightwood-Bane. Bane-Lightwood. Or smash the two names together to give Blueberry a new surname, just for him? Banewood?

Magnus laughs, and to his _delight,_ Blueberry smiles right along with him.

“I suppose this is a conversation that should include the whole family, isn’t it? No point in trying to figure it out just the two of us. We should wait for…” his eyebrows furrow… “Alexander.” He purses his lips. “Dad? Daddy?” Magnus hasn’t thought of it like this yet, but now he’s realizing, “We haven’t really decided what _our_ names are yet, either.”

In a way, it feels even stranger than having to choose a name for Blueberry. Having to choose a name for himself. A title. Blueberry probably won’t even be able to manage something like ‘dada’ or ‘papa’ for quite some time, but still. Eventually. They’ll have to decide this eventually. Magnus will have to decide what he wants Blueberry to call him. Dad. Father.

Father.

Blueberry tries to shove the side of Magnus’s hand into his mouth. And all Magnus can do is… stare down at him.

It’s new. Maybe it shouldn’t feel as new as it does, but…

He’s heard the term before. Directed at him. But never by itself. Always with an amendment. Always with a caveat.

‘Like.’

‘Magnus is _like_ a father to me.’ ‘Magnus is _like_ family to me.’ Magnus is like family to many people.

But, for Blueberry, Magnus just… is.

Magnus won’t be like a father to Blueberry. He’ll just be his father. He _is_ his father. One of his two fathers, one of the only set of parents he’ll ever know. Magnus won’t be stepping in for someone else. Magnus won’t be found later on, used to fill a void that already existed before him. Magnus won’t be _like_ a parent to him, Magnus won’t raise him _like_ a real parent would.

This time, Magnus will just raise him. Raise his son. His son, who will always know Magnus as his father.

Magnus gives another glance across the room. Alec is still snoring. If anything, he’s even louder than before - which Magnus hadn’t thought was possible.

He smiles. And he looks back down at Blueberry.

“Honestly, I don’t know why I’m so surprised.” He chuckles weakly. His throat suddenly feels unsteady. He tries to get his hand out of Blueberry’s grip, but that doesn’t seem like it’s going to happen. So he just settles for stroking his thumb across Blueberry’s cheek. “After all, I’ve always had a habit of taking in baby downworlders.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original author's notes can be found [here](http://my-nameless-bliss.tumblr.com/post/163741982636).


	15. January

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A companion piece to [Chapter 25 of "Alec Lightwood Deserves Nice Things"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6623803/chapters/28801332)

Magnus stops outside the door. He’s already gone through the checklist. Twice. Once before he left the office, and once on the walk back. But for some reason, the sight of the door, the gold number plate, the buzzing awareness of ‘home’…

He goes through it again.

Pats his pockets, makes sure his cigarette case is still abandoned in his desk drawer and didn’t magically weasel itself onto his person. Blinks, makes sure his glamour is holding, strong enough to sharpen the bleariness of his vision and whiten the veiny redness in the corners of his eyes. Checks his breath, makes sure scotch and smoke have been thoroughly replaced with something light and innocuously minty. Tugs at the hem of his coat, the cuffs of his sleeves, touches a hand to his hair, makes sure he’s presentable.

And he looks at the door.

He doesn’t hear Max. There’s no crying, screaming, laughing, running feet. There’s no noise at all. It’s… still. Quiet. Calm. It’s not what he expects to come home to anymore-

Oh. Naptime.

Of course. Magnus hadn’t forgotten that this is when Alec puts Max down. And he hadn’t forgotten that this isn’t when he usually comes home. But somehow, he’d forgotten to put those two pieces together. He’s coming home early, during naptime.

He should have said something, shouldn’t he? A quick text, just as a warning. ‘Client canceled, coming home.’ ‘I’ll be home in 10.’ Something. Sneaking in unannounced like this, over an hour before Alec expects him, it seems almost… rude.

There’s such a system in place these days. A strict schedule. A routine. Magnus may not know what Alec’s routine is, but he can only assume that it’s as important as his own. That they both have a checklist that needs to be completed before Magnus gets home, before they see each other. And right now, Magnus is preventing Alec from going through his. He’s robbing Alec of the chance to do… whatever it is that he does. Whatever happens on the other side of the door, while Magnus stands on this side of it, patting his pockets, checking his breath.

He frowns. Because he’s being ridiculous. Worrying about going into his own home without announcing his arrival. He’s been living in this apartment for over sixty goddamn years. He doesn’t need a fucking invitation to open the door just because it’s afternoon and not evening.

He flicks his wrist, and the door flies open.

Shit, he hadn’t meant for that to be quite so… passionate. His magic must be a bit more inebriated than the rest of him.

And now, it’s the next phase of the routine. Lock the door, nudge the Chairman away so he can take off his shoes, hang up his coat, and…

Check for Alec.

Living room, then back to the kitchen, then the bedroom door.

No. He’s not out here.

Magnus takes a short, shallow breath.

Alright. It’s one of those days. One of the days when Alec doesn’t want to talk to him. Doesn’t want to see him.

Magnus isn’t sure why he’s disappointed. It’s not as though he finds those interactions enjoyable. Seeing that blank, performative smile. Hearing the empty words. God, the amount of times Magnus has asked how he is, how his day was, how _anything_ is, and gotten a script instead of an answer. It’s automatic now. Alec doesn’t even have to think about it anymore.

He used to have to think about it.

Magnus sets his phone on the coffee table, and he almost wants to laugh. Because he feels a sharp twist of nostalgia, a longing for the good old days when his fiance needed to think before lying to him. Magnus misses when he could actually see Alec make that decision. He misses when it was a decision, and not a reflex.

The door to the nursery is cracked open, just enough for Magnus to hear the repetitive lull of Max’s nightlight. There’s no shuffling, or rustling, or blubbering, nothing to indicate that there’s any sort of problem. But Magnus pokes his head in anyway. It’s a habit, and an unbreakable one as far as he can tell. He doesn’t even know how many minutes, how many hours he’s spent like this, leaning against the nursery door frame, breathing, watching Max sleep. How many nights he’s wasted, just standing here, with a glass - or a bottle, on a bad day - letting midnight turn to one to two to dawn. Watching Max, always sprawled on his back, with one arm spread wide, and one hand against his forehead (he doesn’t suck his thumb, he never has. He rubs his knuckles against the side of his forehead). This is what Magnus does. He stands here, and he watches Max sleep, and he listens to Alec snoring in the next…

In the next room.

What is that?

There’s… noise. Coming from the bedroom. Movement. Hurried, almost scrambling. And it’s not normal.

The door isn’t latched, but it’s closed enough that Magnus still knocks. It feels like the polite thing to do. “Alec?” He nudges the door with his wrist-

And too much happens.

Or, no. Not really. Hardly anything happens. But Magnus isn’t prepared for it.

Alec is turned toward the bathroom door. One hand is out, like he’s reaching for the doorknob, or the lightswitch. And one hand his clutching the neckline of his t-shirt. He’s scrubbing, wiping it across his face…

His wet, red face.

For a moment, he’s motionless, wide-eyed, like his fight-or-flight instinct has failed, and left him frozen instead.

But it doesn’t last long. “Shit,” he whispers. His eyes close. His mouth tightens. “Shit,” he says again. He turns away from Magnus, sniffling, still wiping his face. Hiding. “Shit. _Shit._ ”

Magnus’s mind still hasn’t caught up to what he’s seeing, to the overwhelming amount of information in front of him. He needs to have a reaction. He _knows_ he needs to… think something. To feel something about this. But he doesn’t know what it is. He takes a breath, because he knows he should say something. That’s what he does. This is where he says something. Alec is standing here, crying… and this is where Magnus says something. Says the right thing, and helps.

He opens his mouth.

And there’s nothing. There aren’t any words.

He forces air out of his lungs, swallows, moves his lips like he’s speaking, in case that could somehow trick his brain into knowing what he’s supposed to say.

But that doesn’t matter. Because for once, Alec speaks first. “Magnus, I-” he turns his face, but keeps his eyes on the floor. His hand is moving along the hem of his shirt, fingers spasming across each other. “You can’t- I’m sorry, but you c-” he sniffs, waves weakly in Magnus’s direction. “I can’t, right now. I just- you… You have to leave.” His expression crumples. His shoulders hunch forward like he’s been hit. “Please. I’m sorry, but I can’t. I can’t do this right now.”

Tears drip down his face, onto his shirt. He shivers with uneven breaths. His gaze is still locked on the floor.

Magnus realizes that his heart is pounding. He’s tense. But it’s not because of what Alec said. That’s oddly… unsurprising. Seeing what’s happening, what’s happened, Magnus isn’t surprised at all by what Alec just said. He’s surprised by what his response is going to be.

“No.”

It makes Alec look at him. Makes Alec _finally_ look at him.

And Magnus makes himself look into Alec’s eyes. To see the redness, the irritation, the tears that still haven’t stopped.

Magnus swallows, and takes a breath. “No,” he says again, just to make sure he’d actually said it. He feels the weight of it. The uncertainty. The fear. So he fights it. He pulls his shoulders back, and tries to make it seem like he’s confident in what he’s doing. “ _I’m_ sorry, but I’m not leaving. This needs to happen.”

It sounds harsh. It _feels_ harsh. So Magnus can only hope that everything else comes through as well. That Alec knows it, as well as he does. That Alec needs this as much as he does.

It’s impossible to tell, at first. Alec is still thrown. He clearly still hasn’t recovered from the shock of Magnus being home, of Magnus walking in, and now Magnus’s refusing to leave is making him…

Magnus forces himself to keep breathing, and he sits down on the foot of the bed.

He didn’t think it would happen like this.

He knew one of them would break, eventually. That much was obvious. He’s always known that this wasn’t sustainable. But he didn’t think it would be this. He thought he’d be here for it, for one thing. That he’d see it when it happened, not walk into it after the fact. He thought he’d see and hear and know what caused it, what finally made it… snap. He thought he’d be involved. A participant, not an observer. He thought he’d be sober (though perhaps that was a little unrealistic). And, more than any of that, he thought he’d be prepared. It’s been so long, after all. Surely by now, after this much time, he should be ready for this.

It’s finally happening, and he’s not ready at all.

Alec still hasn’t moved. Magnus isn’t looking at him, but he can hear him. His stillness. His irregular breathing. Magnus can hear him crying. But he’s fighting it, sniffling and gasping and trying to get himself under control.

Magnus still doesn’t look at him. He can’t. He knows Alec doesn’t want him to. He knows Alec can’t handle having him see this. It’s already bad enough that he’s here, that he’s aware of it. This one scrap of courtesy is the least Magnus can do.

Magnus tries to gather himself, to use these few moments for something useful. He tries to think of what he’s going to say. What he should say. What he needs to say. What Alec needs him to say. He’s been thinking about this conversation for so long. Imagining it, letting the scene play out a thousand different ways in his mind. After so many months, it seems like he should have gone through every possibility. He should have considered every version of this moment, and prepared for it. At least one of his imaginary scenes should have stuck in his mind. He should be able to remember some parts of those scripts, shouldn’t he?

Maybe it’s the buzz, the dullness in his mind. Everything is still pleasantly muted by those glasses of cheap whiskey. His heart is beating a little too hard. His face is a little too warm. His thoughts are moving a little too slowly. He tries to remember.

It must be minutes, or maybe his perception of time just isn’t working properly, but it _feels_ like it’s minute after minute after minute, sitting here, trying to breathe, trying to remember what he needs to say.

Alec sits down next to him.

Well, near him, anyway. On the bed, but at the opposite side. They’re each at a corner, facing the same wall, looking straight ahead. Looking anywhere but at each other.

It takes Magnus a moment to realize that Alec has stopped crying. His breathing still sounds a little heavy, a little forced. Tired. But it’s… it’s calm. It’s something.

So. Here they are.

All of this, all of the pieces, all of these months, and… here they are.

Magnus breathes. In. And out.

“Well.” His voice is too loud in the quiet room. His throat is tight. He takes another breath. In. And… in.

And…

Out.

“I suppose this was inevitable, wasn’t it?” he says, with levity that’s pathetically forced. Because it’s not useful, it doesn’t accomplish anything, it’s just a useless observation. But for now, it’s the only thing he can think to say. “There had to be a limit somewhere. It could only be so long before something… broke.”

It feels like a diplomatic way to phrase it. Some _thing,_ not someone. A vague ‘this’, distancing them from it. Like this is something that’s happened to them, not something they’ve done. Something they’ve become. It feels like a fair way to ease into the conversation.

Alec must not agree, because he… laughs. Sort of. Laughter was probably his intention, but it sounds more like a cough, and then a gasp. It’s quick, and quiet. But Magnus can still hear the bitterness in it. “You think this is the limit? Just ‘cause I didn’t know you’d be home early? This isn’t breaking, it’s just-” he makes that same noise again, that attempt at a laugh, “bad timing.”

Magnus looks at him. Alec doesn’t look back, but he must be able to feel Magnus’s gaze on him, because he closes his eyes.

‘Bad timing.’

So, this…

Magnus’s chest feels heavy.

This isn’t the… It isn’t the first time this has happened. This isn’t the first time Alec has sat in the bedroom, during Max’s nap, and-

It’s just the first time Magnus has seen it.

How…

How long has it been? How many times?

It’s always felt so… excusable. There’s always been a reason, a justification for what they’re going through. How they’re behaving. Stress, sleepless nights, being apart during the days after those first few months of _always_ being together. There’s always been… something. Some external circumstance that Magnus could point to and blame. But none of that is enough to excuse this. Not even once. And apparently, it’s been so much more than once. 

Magnus looks away again, back at the wall. He feels oddly detached, like he’s not really here, not really a part of this. Like it’s just another one of his imaginary scenarios. One of the ones that he can opt out of whenever he wants to. This is just too… much. It’s too much to be real. He can’t be expected to deal with this much. He doesn’t know what to do with it. He doesn’t know what to do.

He knows what questions he could ask. How long this has been going on, how long it’s been this bad, why Alec didn’t say anything, why Alec didn’t do _anything,_ why Alec didn’t care that Magnus didn’t do anything either. But those questions don’t actually feel helpful. Because, really, Magnus still doesn’t even know what’s happening. He doesn’t understand any of this. And he _hates_ not understanding.

There’s silence, again. A handful of moments, maybe a minute or two. Their quiet breathing. The muted sounds coming through the baby monitor. The deafening silence.

Alec takes a loud breath.

“Magnus, I can’t do this anymore.”

The impulse hits Magnus right away, and he has to force himself to stop - to keep himself from finishing Alec’s thought for him, deciding what he means by ‘this’. There are so many possibilities, so many things he could mean, and Magnus doesn’t know which, so there’s no point in guessing. There’s no point in guessing whether he just means he can’t handle what they’re going through now, or if he means more, if he means he can’t handle any of it, can’t handle Max, can’t handle Magnus, doesn’t want this life anymore-

Magnus closes his eyes, and breathes, until he can finally get his voice to overpower his thoughts. “What do you mean?”

Alec takes a breath that sounds almost eager, like he knows exactly what he wants to say. But he doesn’t say it. Maybe he’s second-guessing himself. Maybe he doesn’t like what he wants to say. Maybe he’s trying to stop and think through the words, instead of answering with an impulse.

In the end, a sigh gets out before any of the words. “It’s too much. It’s all… just too-” he inhales sharply, “too much.” The strain in his voice gets worse, tighter, the cracks and breaks hitting on every word. “I thought I could do it. I really did. I thought I could, but I c-”

He stops, and there’s silence. And Magnus pretends that he doesn’t know it’s because Alec is crying again - or at least, he’s starting to cry again, and trying not to.

Alec sniffs loudly, swallows a few times. From what Magnus can see in his periphery, he’s probably wiping his eyes, or rubbing a hand across his mouth.

Magnus still doesn't know what to say. Or, he does, but it’s… nothing. There’s nothing he can say right now. Nothing to contribute. No way he can help. He just has to wait.

He loses track of how many times Alec shifts, gathering himself. Because it never works. He doesn’t actually say anything. He gives up, again and again.

“I don’t know if it… if it got harder, or- I mean. I- I _know_ it’s harder, like this, but I don’t know if it’s just that, or if I…” Alec clears his throat. “I don’t know if taking care of a kid is supposed to be this hard. Or if it’s just. Me. I don’t know if I’m supposed to be… better. At this. If it’s normal that I can’t-” He stops. Takes a shaky breath. “That I can’t do this.”

He doesn’t move, but there’s… there’s something else that changes. Some sort of shift, maybe in his breathing, maybe in his voice. Magnus can’t pinpoint what it is, but he can feel it. He can feel Alec collapse, even though he’s perfectly still. “I can’t do this, Magnus. I know I said I could- and I _could,_ for a while. For a while it was fine, and I could handle it, and I don’t know wh- what changed. I didn’t think anything changed, but it’s different now and I can’t do it anymore and I don’t know why.” He gasps in, more like a hiccup than a breath. “I don’t know what happened. I don’t know what made it all so… I don’t know what the problem is. I don’t know if it’s something with Max, or if it’s me, or if it’s-”

He cuts himself off, but not quite as quickly as he’d probably meant to. Because he formed the next word, well enough for Magnus to know what it was going to be.

‘If it’s you.’

But Magnus doesn’t get to think much about that, because now that Alec has started, it doesn’t seem like he’s going to stop. “But I can’t handle it anymore. It’s too-” he gasps in another breath. “I can’t handle being here all the time, and I’m always alone, and Max is- he… he j-just. He’s always - and it’s _always_ \- he’s always… screaming, or crying, or sick, or fucking something up with his magic and it’s _impossible_ when he’s like that, but then- even wh-” another gasp. “Even when he’s good, it’s not… it’s not easier. It’s not easier it’s _never_ getting any easier and I can’t…” He gasps again, but this time, it comes out in a long, shaking sigh. “I can’t. I’m sorry, Magnus, but I- I can’t…” his voice sort of… sticks, for a moment. Like he’s going to say something else, finish his sentence, finish his thought.

But he doesn’t. He just keeps breathing. In little, uneven gasps.

And there’s…

There’s so… much. So much there. So much for Magnus to hear, and understand. He knows he should be thinking about it, thinking about Alec, thinking about what Alec’s just admitted to him. But he can’t, because he’s stuck. On one part of it, one tiny fragment of everything he’s just been told.  

He looks at Alec. “Max is difficult for you too?”

Alec looks at Magnus. “What?”

Magnus’s heart is pounding again, almost too loudly for him to hear his own thoughts. “You… You always say he’s good for you. Every day, I-” his voice catches, gets stuck by something tightening in his throat, and he has to swallow to fight it back. “I ask you _every_ day, and you always say that Max was absolutely perfect for you. But then I get home, and I deal with him, and he-”

It takes him longer, this time. He has to swallow harder. He has to make himself hum lightly. Make himself smile. “I’ve started thinking he must just hate me.” And he makes himself laugh. Like it’s funny.

Alec scoffs. And he looks away again, down at the carpet. “Well if he does, he hates me just as much.”

Magnus blinks, harder than he should. Harder than what should be necessary. Because that…

That’s certainly something, isn’t it?

Max is just as difficult for Alec as he is for Magnus. Alec struggles with him as much as Magnus does. Max can make Alec’s days just as _horrible_ as Magnus’s nights.

And in a way, that should make this worse. Because Alec isn’t actually dealing with the idyllic image of Max that he’s fabricated when he tells Magnus about his day. In reality, he’s dealing with the exact same tantrums, and meltdowns, and outbursts, and sparks, and all the rest of it. He’s been struggling with a difficult child, alone, day after day, month after month. And he’s never said a word. And that’s so much worse.

But that awareness isn’t enough to stop the overwhelming sense of _relief_ that rushes through Magnus so suddenly that he feels weak. Because it’s not him. It’s not Magnus. Max is a handful, capable of being a downright nightmare, but that’s just… how he is. He’s difficult. For both of them. Max doesn’t spend his days as a happy little dream, then suddenly burst into tears the moment Magnus comes home. Max isn’t crying because he sees Magnus, because Magnus tries to say hello, or hold him.

Max doesn’t hate him.

His son doesn’t hate him.

It shouldn’t be what he’s thinking about. God, the fact that Alec has been going through this shouldn’t be good news. Magnus shouldn’t be taking _comfort_ in any of this. He shouldn’t be happy that Max is apparently indiscriminately awful.

But the relief won’t go away.  

So he tries to change his focus. To recalibrate his mind and start thinking practically, to think about what he can say that’s actually productive. It feels foolishly shortsighted to think in terms of ‘solutions’ yet, but he can at least start… trying. He can try heading in that direction.

“I can stay home again.” It’s too simplistic. It’s lacking… so much. But it’s real. It’s a practical offer. “I can stop taking jobs. We’ll go back to how things were when we first brought him home.”

Alec sniffs loudly. “No, Magnus, you don’t have to do that.”

“I’m not saying I _have_ to do it. I’m saying that I want to help.”

“But you don’t need to- you… You wanted to go back to work. You want to keep working.”

“I want to take care of my family,” Magnus corrects - and his voice is a bit more stern than he’d intended. He’s not controlling his tone as well as he wants to. “I would never have wanted to adopt Max in the first place if I didn’t want to _raise_ him.”

Alec shakes his head, fidgeting. “You _do_ take care of him. And you work. That’s fine. It doesn’t have to change-”

“It is _not_ fine!” Magnus interrupts. “ _This_ is not fine, Alec. This is something that needs to be fixed, and if-”

“Magnus-”

“If this isn’t working, we need to figure out something else. And you can’t honestly think that I care more about _working_ than being-”

“It’s harder when you’re here.”

It…

It lands like a punch.

Magnus tries to remember what… he was saying. The words are gone. He’s… winded.

Alec still isn’t looking at him. He’s still looking at the carpet. His lips are pressed together. He’s breathing too heavily. Like saying it was a feat. Like it took energy. His hand is clutching his knee, and it’s trembling a little. He blinks a few times. Quickly. “It’s harder, and-” a deep, shaking breath, “and I know you feel the same way. You _have_ to,” he says, like pleading.

And he’s…

He’s right. Magnus hates it, hates hearing it, hates knowing it, hates how true it is. And he hates that Alec feels it.

He gathers himself, as best he can. “Yes. It is.”

Alec deflates a little. Relieved. Like he’s grateful that they agree about this awful, _awful_ thing. “So there’d be no point, unless that… changes. Unless we can…” he trails off, but with a sense of finality. An acknowledgement that he doesn’t know how to finish. He doesn’t have any solutions. Any answers.

Answers. Solutions.

Right.

Magnus forces himself to keep thinking. Keep his mind going. Keep himself focused on the logical and the possible, so he can’t slow down enough to… feel. He needs to keep himself thinking, so he can’t feel any of this. He can’t handle feeling this yet.

“Then we need to change it,” Magnus says, with what little conviction he can muster. “We have to figure out what needs to change, and we need to fix this.”

Alec makes a few weakly surprised noises. Maybe he’s trying to laugh again. Maybe it’s a scoff. “Yeah, that’s it. We just need to _fix_ everything.” His voice is tired, but sharp. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

“Alec,” Magnus warns.

“If I knew what to do to make this better, I would have fucking done it by now,” Alec snaps with a sudden flare of anger. But he sounds… unsure. He sounds defensive.

Magnus takes a deep breath, because it’s getting uncomfortably difficult to keep his voice quiet. To keep himself calm. “I’m well aware of that. Which is why we need to talk about this, so we can work something-”

“I know!” Alec hunches over himself, elbows on his knees, face in his hands. But his fingers are tense, curling into his hair, his palms pressed to his eyes. He makes a few short sounds, like the beginnings of words that he immediately abandons.

After a few more moments, he sighs, and his hands drop away from his face. “I know, I just…” he brings one of his hands up to his head again, running his fingers through the back of his hair, much more gently this time. “Yeah. Okay.” He closes his eyes. “Yeah, we can-”

There’s fussing from over the monitor. A vague gurgling, then a few wet coughs.

Then Max starts crying.

And Alec breaks. His face crumples, his eyes squeeze shut, his posture damn near gives out. “Shit.” He presses a hand to his face. He sniffles a few times, probably trying to cover up the few weak, pained noises that get stuck in his throat. He shakily gets to his feet-

“Alec.” Magnus stands up, putting himself between Alec and the door. “I’ll check on him. Just sit down for a minute.”

Alec shakes his head, over and over, blinking too hard, fighting too hard. “No. No, I’ll go.” His voice is broken, and so small that it’s barely audible over the sound of Max’s wailing.

“You still need a moment. Get a glass of water, and-”

Alec takes a step forward. “I can handle this, Magnus.” Tears are still slipping down his face.

“I know,” Magnus says, with a bit more severity. “And so can I. And you can stay here.”

Max gets louder, shriller.

“No, I have to-”

“You don’t. You can let me deal with this, and you can take some time to calm down.”

Max is screaming - over the baby monitor, and through the bedroom wall.

Alec sniffs, blinks, frantically wipes his tears with the palm of his hand. He moves forward again, into Magnus’s space, starting to shove past him. “No, no no I can’t, I have t- I can’t-”

“Alec, _sit down!_ ”

Fuck.

Fuck.

Magnus takes a deep breath.

_Fuck._

Alec is motionless, face wet, eyes wide but brows furrowed. It’s surprise, mostly. Maybe some confusion. Because Magnus doesn’t shout like that. They don’t shout like that. They don’t yell at each other. Even when things get heated, it’s just… not what they do.

It must be all that fucking alcohol. Magnus knew this wasn’t a good conversation to have when he’s not sober.

Max is still screaming.

Magnus takes another deep breath.

“Please,” he says quietly, “sit down.” He turns his wrist and conjures a glass of water into his hand. “Drinking this will help you feel better.” He starts to hold it out… but on second thought… he magicks it onto Alec’s nightstand instead. Gives it a bit more distance. “I’ll go check on Max.”

And he leaves the room.

It feels almost surreal, walking out of that. Crossing the threshold into the living room is like… waking up. Looking up from a book. It takes a moment to reorient himself, to remember what… else there is, out here. Everything outside of that conversation. It’s such a palpable change that it’s almost enough to make him wonder if that was even real.

Max is still screaming.

Well, _that’s_ certainly real.

The unbroken routine of their daily life is once again made abundantly clear by Max’s immediate confusion when he sees Magnus step into the nursery. Magnus being home during naptime is obviously just as much of a shock to Max as it was to Alec. It’s enough to make him stop screaming for a moment, so he can blubber and snuffle and rub his hand across his snot-covered face and ask, “P-Papa?” through hiccuping breaths.

“Blueberry,” Magnus responds, trying to sound at least somewhat playful.

And it’s jarring, trying to be light, trying to act like everything is completely normal as he starts running through the list of things that could potentially be wrong with Max. It feels so ordinary, so routine. Of course, that’s probably because it _is._ Max doesn’t differentiate much between minor nuisances and life-threatening situations, so trying to deduce the cause of his meltdowns is more-or-less a daily responsibility. By now, they’ve gotten used to checking for problems in descending order of severity. A standard, consistent list.

And it’s not particularly surprising to get to the end of that list and realize that there’s nothing wrong at all. Max isn’t talking - just whining out some half-hearted gibberish whenever Magnus directly asks him something.

So it’s just boredom, then. Max has decided he’s done with naptime, and wants to be freed from his sleep prison.

Which means that the only thing Magnus can do is calmly explain that naptime won’t be over for a few more minutes, and if Max doesn’t want to sleep anymore, he has to wait nicely until it’s time for them to come get him. Max certainly doesn’t seem thrilled with this outcome, but Magnus manages to settle him back down, and even gets a few kisses (though they seem suspiciously passive-aggressive for a two-year-old) before he leaves.

He pulls Max’s door behind him until it’s mostly-closed… and then there’s a moment, where he’s standing in front of the nursery, looking over at the bedroom door. And he considers not going in. He considers turning around and going into the library instead, shutting the door behind him, locking it. He considers going into the kitchen, undoing the lock on the small cabinet above the stove to get at the few bottles of alcohol they keep in the apartment these days. He even considers leaving. Going back to the office. Going to Cat’s apartment. Going anywhere else.

But it’s only a moment.

Then he snaps out of it, shakes that idea out of his head. After all, this… this - whatever this is, it’s started now. He can’t very well act like things are the same as they were this morning.

This afternoon. An hour ago. Less than that, even. It’s probably only been a few minutes, hasn’t it? But somehow, walking into the loft earlier, assuming everything was the same as it’s been every other day… it already feels distant. He’s already stepped out of that moment. It’s already a memory.

He’s far enough away from it that he can really start to feel it. And it’s… heavy. He feels weight on his chest, dragging down into his stomach, he feels weight on his shoulders, strong enough to make him tense against it, he can already feel the stress of knots and a strain in his neck.

The bedroom door is wide open, but Magnus still knocks again. It still feels like the polite thing to do.

Alec has moved from the bed to his armchair. He’s shoved the footrest to one side, so he has room to sit with his legs apart, his elbows on his knees. It’s the same way he’d been hunched over before, but it looks different. It’s looser, more relaxed.

He doesn’t look up when Magnus knocks. Or when Magnus takes a few steps into the room. Or when Magnus stands there, for several uncomfortably still seconds.

And Magnus doesn’t feel quite ready to say anything yet, to start all of this up again. So he takes the time, the silence, to just… look at Alec.

His face is dry now - but too much so. His eyes are still painfully red, his lips are chapped, his nose has been rubbed raw. Each feature is either too pale or too pink, and both look even more stark against the contrast of his beard, which…

It’s fuller, isn’t it? Or has Magnus just not been paying attention? He’s spent such a long time thinking of it as scruff, just a few days’ worth of not having time to shave properly. But it’s a beard, now. For some reason, he can finally see that. He can see how long Alec’s hair has gotten, in an unkempt, clearly unintentional way. He can see how poorly Alec’s shirt fits him, but he can’t tell if it’s a shirt that’s always been too large for him, or if he’s gotten too small for it. He can see that it’s stained, that it has holes, that it’s as old and worn-out as his boxers, and… why is he… when did he start wearing those? Magnus didn’t notice them earlier - there was too much else going on for him to take in something as trivial as Alec’s outfit. But now…

He didn’t know Alec still had any boxers. He’s always assumed he’d gotten rid of them. Ages ago.

Magnus didn’t know. He didn’t know he still wears boxers, he didn’t know he kept his old t-shirts, he didn’t know it’s been so long since he shaved, he didn’t know it’s been so long since he’s gotten a haircut, he didn’t know this is what he wears when he’s alone, he didn’t know this is how he spends his days, he didn’t know that he sits in their bedroom and sobs quietly enough that he won’t wake up Max, he didn’t know that it’s been happening for so long, and he _doesn’t_ know how long it’s been happening, he doesn’t know how many afternoons he’s spent like this, he doesn’t know when else Alec breaks down like this, he doesn’t know if it’s happened when Magnus is home, when Magnus is in another room, when Magnus is in bed with him, when Magnus comes to bed and Alec pretends to sleep, rather than acknowledge him, when he spends hours lying awake next to Magnus, pretending to sleep, while Magnus pretends not to know he’s pretending, and _how_ did Magnus not know? How the fuck can he be learning so much?

Alec can’t hide things from him. Alec has never been able to lie to him, Alec is _bad_ at lying to him. The past year has been strange enough, hard enough, impossible enough when it was… something simpler. When it was less severe, when it didn’t run as deep, when Magnus didn’t know what it was. When he didn’t know that it’s really _this._ When it was obvious that something was wrong, and Alec didn’t want to acknowledge it, and tried to hide it, and failed. It was bad enough when it was just that Alec wasn’t talking to him. Didn’t want to be around him. Didn’t want to say hello to him when he got home. Didn’t want to say good morning or good night. That was already enough. It was already too much. It shouldn’t be more, shouldn’t be so much worse. Alec shouldn’t be sitting in this chair, in boxers and a ratty t-shirt, with a red face, slouched over like he can barely hold himself up, holding the empty water glass between his hands like he might give up and let it slip from his fingers at any-

His hands.

His fingers.

Magnus hasn’t looked at his hands yet. His left hand.

He isn’t… wearing his engagement ring.

Magnus blinks.

He blinks a little harder.

But that’s not-

That’s not… anything.

It could be anything. There are dozens of reasons, _hundreds_ of perfectly normal reasons. It’s not as though their rings are glued to their fingers, after all. Magnus takes his off, plenty of times, for plenty of reasons, and none of them mean anything at all. It’s normal. It’s fine. It’s fine. This doesn’t mean anything at all. And if it does mean something, Magnus doesn’t know what. Magnus can’t tell anything from this. So there’s no point in noticing it. No point in thinking about it. No point in worrying.

He blinks a few more times.

It’s nothing.

It might be nothing.

It might-

He takes a sharp breath.

This isn’t the time. There are other… other problems. More pressing issues. He needs to… prioritize.

He can’t invite another problem right now. He can’t handle hearing anything more. Anything else. Anything worse.

He sits down at the foot of the bed again.

Alec glances up at him.

He looks tired. He look so utterly, completely exhausted.

It’s wrong. He’s not supposed to look like this. It shouldn’t have gotten this far. This shouldn’t be…

It feels like Magnus has just been seeing bits and pieces. For all these months. One day he saw that Alec stopped wearing makeup. One day he saw dark circles under Alec’s eyes. One day he saw Alec shift away from him, avoiding his kiss. One day he saw Alec wipe at his eyes - and Magnus asked him what was wrong, and he saw Alec smile, and say “nothing”. And each piece was excusable. Each piece was troubling, but not enough to be a problem.

And now he’s seeing the whole, and he can’t… He can hardly bear to look. He’s suddenly overwhelmed by how badly he wants this to change. How badly he wants things to be better. How badly he wants Alec to be better. To be happy again. He needs Alec to be happy again.

Alec looks down at the glass in his hands. He shakes his head a bit.

“How did it get this bad?”

Magnus feels a little pang of surprise, caught off-guard by hearing Alec articulate exactly what he was already thinking.

Alec starts absently twirling the glass. “It shouldn’t’ve- it’s not…” he sighs out through his nose. “It doesn’t seem like… the type of thing that happens to _us._ ” He looks at Magnus again. “I thought we were better than this.”

Magnus almost laughs. It’s a fast, hard impulse. Because that sounds so true. It sounds like something Magnus would have believed, a year ago. And after so much time, it’s almost… strange, to hear Alec say something he agrees with. To hear Alec say something real. Something honest.

He doesn’t laugh, but he makes himself raise an eyebrow, and does his best to smile. “Well, I suppose there was never a chance that having a baby would make anything _easier_ for us.”

Alec exhales, and his shoulders move, and the corner of his mouth _almost_ starts to lift.

And it’s almost a nice moment.

A bit of noise starts in the nursery, barely enough to be picked up by the monitor. It’s not crying, but it’s not a happy sound, either. Max snuffles a little, whimpers a little. Not enough to be crying, or gibberish, or anything more than a reminder that he’s unhappy.

There’s a change in Alec’s face. It’s small enough that it probably wouldn’t even be noticeable, if they weren’t looking at each other so closely, second after second. It’s his eyes, maybe something with his forehead. It looks like acknowledgement, or maybe surrender. It looks like he was going to say something, and changed his mind. Whatever he was going to say gets abandoned, blinked out of his eyes, and instead he says, “What do we do now?”

His voice is quiet. Tired. More than a little frightened.

Magnus has to look away. He breathes, slowly, until his throat feels steady.

He stands up. “Now, you’re going to take a shower, and put on some clean clothes. And I’m going to get Max up, and start something for dinner.”

Alec’s eyebrows tilt up. His mouth tightens. His eyes look a little wetter than they should. “That’s not what I mean.”

“I know.” Magnus takes a deep breath. It comes out a little shakier than he’d like. “But right now, it’s the best we can do.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original author's notes can be found [here](http://my-nameless-bliss.tumblr.com/post/171462203291).


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